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DOBELL COLLECTION 



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EOULOGNE-Sl ri-3iER. 



Printed ly F. Rirle, 35, rue des Pjpots, 



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Class. 
Book. 



DOBELL COLLECTION 



• 



IM[USINGS 



AND 







BY 



tt)0ma6 j^aguf6 Sagly. 




BOULOGNE. 

Piinted by F. BiRLE , 36, rue des PIpols» 



1833, 



20544 
'13 



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Z2- )'i-r/i 



• 4 






CONTENTS 



- TWELVE SONGS WRITTEIV AT BOULOGIVE. 

Page. 

Spirit of song. , , I » * i 

From the Ends of the Earth will I call upon thee ..... 3 

The heart is not yet broken 4 

To Helena, on her Birth day 5 

Cupid and Psyche 7 

They have seen better days -. 8 

He knew she never blamed him. 9 

Wo, no, leave me not to my sorrow lo 

The Fashion of this world passeth away ii 

I'll name the place la 

Thou shall laugh all the Heathen to scorn i3 

Oh ! youth is the treasure » i4 

Ferfectiox, a Drama * i5 

The Rectory, a fragment 55 

Slghmon Dumps 90 

My Great Grandmother's Harpsichord 102 

Kings, Queens, and Knaves 109 

FASHIONABLE EGLOGUES. 

N". 1. The Family Mansion 1S8 

IN^o. 2. Junior United Service Club 16-2 

Ii". 5. The Governor's study 168 

W°. 4' M'"s. Long's Boudoir 172 

JS". 5. Hogsnorton House 176 

LUNATIC LAYS. 

N". 1. t must and will an Actress wed ........ 181 

N". 2. I want to go upon the stage 184 

N". 3. I must have music in my soul 187 

JJ". 4« Adieu my mustachios ! farewell to my tip 190 

K". 5. The Last Man! . 192 

J?". 6. The Last Woman! , iq/| 



No. 7. Biography ...;... 1^7 

l«o. 8. The first white hat 200 

iJo. 9. My sinecure place 9o5 

W", 10. Juno's soiree ^ 2o5 

Faults on both sides 206 

Autobiography of a Landaulet 208 

The Exhibited Dwarf „ 217 

The Fatherless 218 

The rfeglected child 221 

The Forsaken to the False one 223 

Twenty years 1 . 224. 

Wit and Folly • 226 

I have not known thee long 226 

Sir Hugh is gone to Palestine . . . ^ 227 

The Lover's Quarrel . 228 

Lea's Bridal day 229 

He rode by at morn . 23o 

I loved him, but I left him 23o 

May thy lot in lil'e be happy , 23i 

The Forsaken to her Father . . » 232 

The song of the dying Bard . . . . 234 

The Pilgrim 235 

Shall we ever be happy again ? 236 

A Legend of Killarney 237 

The Arabian Sleed 248 

Betrenchment 267 

Jfew Faces • 276 

My Pension 277 

The Drawing room 280 

The unwilling Bride . i . . . 281 

The Archery meeting 283 

Apollo and Daphne 284 

The Proof of the Pudding, a Burletta 285 

Epilogue to D° 025 

Lines written after visiting M". Banim 326 

Show me the Ruined Man 327 

'Twas this— 'twas this S28 



twelve Son^^ 



WRITTEN AT 



IB(D19ILD<BS!!Il^^l91]|»IOlElBg 



SPIRIT OF SO^^G, 



I welcome thee back again, Spirit of song ! 
I've bent beneath sorrow's cold pressure too long ( 
I've sufFer'd in silence — how vainly I sought 
For words to unburthen the anguish of thought. 
Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong, 
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song ! 



I welcome thee back — as the Dove to the ark — 

The world was a desert, the future all dark ; 

But I know that the worst of the storm must hi past, 

Thou are come with the green leaf of comfort at last; 

Around me thy radiant imaginings throng, 

I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song ! 



'^^2- 



I fear'd thee, sweet Spirit ! I thought thou wouldst corhte 
AVith Memoiy's records of boyhood and home ; 
The home where I laugh'd away youth, and was told 
It would still be my dwelling place when I grew old : 
But Visions of Hope to thy coming belong, 
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song ! 

Thou wilt not, sweet Spirit, thou wilt not, I know, 
Mislead to the fruitless indulgence of woe, 
That shrinks from the smile that would offer relief 
And seems to be proud of preeminent grief : 
Thou'lt sooth the depression ali^ady too strong, 
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song ! 

There^s a chord that I never must venture to wake — 

The sorrow a loved one hath borne for my sake ; 

But her Love which no change in my fortunes could chilly 

Her smile of afiection that follows me still, 

Oh these are the themes I may proudly prolong, 

1 welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song ! 

I welcome thee back, and again I look forth 
With my wonted delight on the blessings of Earth ; 
Again I can smile with the gay and the young, 
I'he Lamp is rekindled ! the Harp is rcstrung ! 
Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong, 
1 welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song ! 

Bcfulcfgnc, October a3^ i83i. 



-3- 



FROii THE tinbS OIP Tflfi EARTH WILL I CALL UPON TflE«. 



From the Ends of the Earth will I call upon The6 ! 
From the mountain , the ralley, the Forest, the sea ; 
Where the foot of the wanderer never yet trod, 
The heart of the Christian may commtinfe with God ! 
Where Ignorance bends the idol^ltrous knee,— 
i^From the Ends of the Earth will I call upon The6 ! 

I will call upon Thee in Prosperity's day 

Lest the Pride of this Ivorld lead my spirit astray ; 

I will call upon Thee in distress, that my tears 

May atone for the faults and the follies of years ; 

That purer and brighter the Future may be, 

From the Ends of the Earth I will call upon Thee 1 

1 will call upon Thee as I did when I knelt 

In the home on the hills where in boyhood I dwelt^ 

1 will call upon thee if now fated to roam, 

And the land of the stranger will offer a home, 

Affection's sweet solace I gratefully see, — 

From the Ends of the Earth will I call upon Thee 1 

BotiWgnc, November i3th i83i. 



•4- 



THE HEART IS NOT YET BROKEN 



The heart is not yet broken ! 

The harp not yet unstrung ! 
** Despair! " hath not been spoken, 

Though trembling on my tongue! 
Though Fate hath now bereft me 

Of blessings— past recall ; 
I mourn not, she hath left me 

Thy love, more dear than all ! 

My heart too well remembers 

My boyhood's home of mirth, 
Melhinks I see the embers 

Still blazing on the hearth ! 
My song of youth- — I hear it 

Still echo thro' the hall ! 

'Tis gone — but I can bear it ! 

Thy lov« atones for all ! 

A stranger owns the meadow, 

The scene of sportive plays, 
The trees, beneath whose shadow 

I pass'd bright summer days : 
O'er fond hopes crush'd so early 

Some secret tears must fail — 
But loving thee £0 dearly. 

Thy love atones for all. 

Boulogne, December i8th i83i. 



-5- 

TO HELENA, 

ON HER BIRTH DAY DECr. Irtli i83] 



Oh 1 hadst thou never shar'd my fate 

More dark that Fate would prove ; 
My heart were truly desolate, 

Without thy soothing Love : 
But thou has't sufter'd for my sake, 

While this relief I found. 
Like fearless lips that strive to take 

The poison from a wound ! 

My fond affection thou hast seen, 

Then judge of my regret, 
To think more happy thou hadst been, 

If we had never met ! 
And has that thought been shar'd by thee ? 

— Ah, no ! that smiling cheek 
Proves more unchanging love for me 

Than laboured words could speak. 

To circle thee with smiling Friends 

W^ould once have been my pride ; 
Oh ! let my fond love make amends 

For wrongs I cannot hide : 
I deem all those who wrong'd thee, lost^ — 

For ever lost to me ; 
I'd trample on all ties, to boast 

Fidelity to Thee. 



But there are true heaiis whicVi the sight 

Of gan ow summons foi tli ; 
Though knQwn in 4ays of past delight, 

'yVe knew not half their worth : 
JIow unlike some who have profess'd 

So much in Friendship's name^ 
Yet calmly pause, to think how hes^ 

They may evade her claini ! 

Tis easy, as the worldlings know 

Tp apt the mentor's part, 
To cavil at the words that flovv 

Froni agony of heart : 
To veil, as actions they discuss, 

The feelings that incense, 
And censure, where the generous 

Would struggle in defence i 

But oh ! from them to thee I turn 

They'd make me loath mankind ; 
Far hetter lessons I may learn 

From thy more holy mind : 
The love that ^ives a charm to home, 

I feel they cannot take ;— - 
iWc'll pray for happy years to come; 

Fpr one another's sake. 



'i<tfil 



CUPID AND PSYCHE. 



Nightly to Psyche's fairy bovver 

The God of Love in darkness came, 
But left her e'er the sunrise hour 

Betray'd his features and his name : 
Said Cupid '' Oh! remember this, 

" Thy lover's form thou ne'er must see, '' 
—Then fondly vvhisper'd with a kiss, 

*' Beware of Curiosity! "•-— 

But mortal woman never yet 

From such a sentence warning took, 
And more and more each time they met 

She long'd upon his face to look : 
And once on tip toe while he slept 

To fetch her lamp she lightly trod, 
Then back again the trembler crept 

And hung enamour'd o'er the God, 

A spark fell on his breast ! he stirr'd — 

Ah ! what could little Psyche say ! 
Young Love without one parting word 

Waved his light wings, and flew away ! 
The moral. Ladies, pray remark : 

— Whate'er the mystery may be , 
If Love would keep you in the dark, 

tfW^e of Curiosity. / 

Boulogne, January i6lh i832. 



•8— 



'they have seen better days. 



*' They have seen better days " you say. 

Oh tell me when and where ; 
Give me-^the clue to steal away 

The memory of their care : 
There is deep feeling in the tone 

Of that most touching phrase ; 
And sympathy has tears for one 

Who has seen better days. 

But they in their small dwelling place 

Give no complainings vent, 
Their features wear no sullen trace 

Of gloomy discontent ! 
Most cheerful when alone, they seek 

For no external rays ; 
And though oipast days oft they speak, 

Scarce call them better days. 

Have they endur'd neglect or wrong? 

And known diminish'd wealth ? 
Light evils, if to them belong 

Love, competence, and health: 
They who hang hopeless o'er the couch 

Where beauty's bloom decays 
May feel despairing thoughts approach 

And weep for better days. <r^ 

Boulogne, March aoih i852. 



— 9- 



HE KNEW SHE NEVER BLAMED HIM. 



He knew she never blam'd him , 
He knew she seldom nam'd him, 
He saw her mild forgiving look 
A look that half reclaim^ him : 
But from his victim flying 
He basely, left her dying. 
Without a Friend to kneel beside 
The coudi where she was lying. 

And does he now regret her ? 

Yes — striving to forget her, 

His truant thoughts fly back again 

To scenes where first he met her : 

In dreams, — as in a mirror — 

He trembling sees with tei'ror 

A pure heart led to grief and shame. 

The penalty of error. 

None know the thoughts that grieve him ; 
The fairest maids receive him. 
And listen to his flattering voice. — 
Alas ! will they believe him P 
Yes ! — Though his guilt be greater, 
— Though shame and death await her 
W^ho feels a Lover's treachery, 
Oh ! who will shun the Traitor ! 

Boulogne, April 6th i832. 



^—10- 



NO, NO, LEA.VE ME NOT TO MY SORROW. 



No, no, leave me not to my sorrow 

With 'silence the nurse of despair, 
Oh! come to me still, let me borrow 

From thee an oblivion of care : 
Oh ! come with thy light hearted laughter 

For there's such a charm in its tone , 
Like Music 'twill haunt me long after 

Thy form from my dwelling is gone. 

Oh ! come with thy memory's treasures 

Thy stories and snatches of song, 
Oh ! tell of thy innocent pleasures, 

I never can listen too long : 
Oh ! come — though desponding thou'lt find me 

ril smile e'er I see thee go forth, 
I want thy gay voice to remind me 

There's happiness still upon earth. 

Alas ! there's a time when dejection 

Would breathe the wild words of despair. 
Were it not for the veil which affection 

Throws over the records of care : 
Then come with thy light hearted laughter, 

For there's such a charm in its tone, 
Like music 'twill haunt me long after 

Thy form from my dwelling is gone. 



II 



THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD PASSETH AWAT. 



The Fashion of this world passeth away, 
The things that are fairest are first to decay ; 
The bell of the Lily, the leaf of the Rose ; 
The moss on the bank where the Yiolet grows ; 
All these are too sweet and too fragile to stay, 
For the Fashion of this world passeth ^way. 

But mourn not the doom of inanimate things ; 
See thy favourite Bird with it's beautiful wings ; 
Thy Dog full of instinct that courts a caress, 
And scarcely wants language his love to express ; 
The Steed thou art proud of— all — all must decay, 
For the Fashion of this world passeth away. 

And were we not born for a worthier end, 

Than to love him — and lose him-^oh ! what were a Friend 

The fond heart looks forth from its pilgrimage here, 

To a meeting more blest in a happier sphere ; 

For this we must watch, and for this we must pray, 

Since the fashion of this world passeth away. 

Boulogne, April 22nd i83i. 



— 12 — 



1 LL NAME THE PLACE. 



I'll name the place, I'll name the hour, 

Then come— for 'tis a last farewell ; 
The place, shall he the myrtle bower, 

The time', when sounds the vesper belL 
yVe will not meet as oft we've met, 

Nor part, as oft we've parted there, 
Endearing words may breathe regret, 

But silent tears express despair. 

I know that some to sooth thy pain 

Would say that we again shall meet. 
But no — my eyes that cannot feign, 

Would soon betray my tongue's deceit : 
Thou shalt he hopeless — I am so,. 

And rather would I know my doom. 
Than smile, when Friends for ever go. 

And watch — tho' they will never come. 

And some to give thy heart relief 

A parting interview would shun ; 
As if it could be less a grief 

To ask for me when I am gone ! 
Oh no — I've nam'd the place, ^he hour. 

Then come, for tis a last farewell ; 
The place — shall be the myrtle bower 

The time — when sounds the vesper bell. 

Boulogne April i^^^^ iBBa. 



-~i3- 



THOU SHALT LAUGH ALL THE HEATHEN TO SCORN. 



Thou shall laugh all the heathen to scorn, 

Thou shalt bafile the hopes of the proud, 
Thou shalt tear from the worldly the mask he has worn 

To dazzle the eyes of the crowd : 
Not a refuge exists" in the world, 

^Vhere guilt from thy vengeance can turn, 
From his strong hold the wretch at thy bidding is hurl'd, 

Thou wilt laugh all the heathen to scorn. 

If thou sendest thy Pestilence forth. 

It will fly on the wings of the wind ; 
It will pass to the uttermost parts of the Earth, 

And level whole hosts of Mankind ! 
If in terror he seek thee at length , 

Thou wilt not from the Penitent turn, 
But woe to the Mortal who trusts his own strength. 

Thou wilt laugh all the heathen to scorn. 

Boulogne May I »t iSSa. 



-i4- 

OH ! YOUTH IS THE TREASURE. 



Oh youth is the treasure, gay youth is the treasure 

That gives the true lustre to silver and gold, 
.When young, the mere feeling ofLifeisa pleasure, 

A feeling that turns to a sorrovi^, when old! 
If youth in his path should encounter a dolour, 

He'll pass it by briskly, and bid it adieu ; 
He'll gaze thrO' a glass of a beautiful colour, 

And all the wide world will look beautiful too ! 

Is this then the lesson Philosophy gives us ! 

Is youth to be coupled with Pleasure alone ! 
Ah no — let us think that when one season leaves us. 

The oiher will boast some calm joys of it's own. 
If wandering youth his foot now and then places 

On stepping stones Prudence will lay in his track. 
Of his journey, when over, there still will be traces- 

On which age will often look tranquilly back. 

Boulogne, Mafch 20th i832« 



f|^lflC;tl^a, 



OR 



THE LADY OF MUNSTER, 

A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. 
FIRST PERFORMED 

AT THE THEATRE ROYAL DRURY LANE, 






TO THE MARCHIO>^ESS OF LONDONDERRY, 

THE DRAMA OF 

. ]p]EMl€f HOI ■ 

IS 

BY PERMISSION 

MOST RESPECTFULLY 

INSCRIBED. 



^ ^Perfection, "though it has now been successfully per- 
formed at almost every theatre in the kingdom, had to 
contend with many difficulties before it found its way to 
the Public, who afterwards received it with so much favor. 

The Drama was first oftered to a Minor Theatre, where 
]y[rs Waylett was performing ; it was rejected, and subse- 
quently M^* W^aylett became one of the most successful 
perforniers of the principal part! It was then intended 
for Miss Foote, the present Countess of Harrington, and 
was presented to CoYent Garden Theatre when that Lady 
i^as performing there : it was again rejected; yet it is a 
singular fact that "Kate O'Brien" became afterwards one 
of that charming actress's most favorite chara<:ters in the 
Provinces. 

Lastly, it was fortunately offered to Drury-Lane ; was 
instantly accepted by the Committee, and acted without 
delay, and to the excellence of the acting much of its suc- 
cess must be attributed. Madame Vestris was indeed 
Perfection^ arid M" Orger, Richard Jones, and Webster 
could not be surpass'd in their respective characters. 

Perfection has more that once been performed by 
Amateurs, and Kate O'Brien has had aristocratic repre- 
sentatives. The following copy of a play bill will ex- 



plain why the author has solicited permission to dedicate 
the Drama to the beautiful and accomplished Marchioness 
of Londonderry : 

CHRISTMAS FESTlV^ITIES AT DRAKELOW. 

January i^t i83i, 

Af TBR THE PERFORMANCE OF ^ 

A COMEDY BY LADY DACRE, INTITLED 

'*A MATCH, OR NO MATCH,'* 
PERFECTION, 

OR 
THE LADY OF MUNSTER, 

Sir Laurence Paragon . . Mr. Lister. 

Charles Paragon Sir Roger Greslcy. 

Sam Viscount Casllereagh. 

Kale O'Brien Marchioness of Londonderry. 

Susan Lady Sophia Gresley. 

THEATRE ROYAL DRURY LANE. 

DRAMATIC PERSONiE : 

Sir Laurence Paragon. . . . Mr. Browne. 

Charles Paragon Mr. Jones. 

Sam Mr. Webster. 

• Kate O'Brien Madame Vestris. 

Susan Mrs. Orger. 



• 



PERFECTION. 



iL^t ®aiiSc 



SCENE P'. 

An apartment in Kate O'Brien's House : enter Sir Laurence 
Paragon and Susan. 

Susan. 

This way, Sir Laurence, my mistress will he delighted 
to see ycm : Law, Sir ! youVe looking better than ever, I 
protest ! 

SiK Laukence. 

No, Susan, no ; that won't do : better perhaps than when 
you saw me last ; for I was in a hobble then with a touch 
of the gout : but as for * 'better than ^i^er," oh! Susan! 
you wouldn't say that if you could have seen me five 
and twenty years ago ! I certainly was a very fine grown 
young man. Tf^as ! how I hate that word ! 

Susan. 

You're not married yet, Sir Laurence! More's the 
wonder, as I say to my mistress, and more's the pity, as I 
say to myself; and it is a pity, Sir, that you're an old 
Batchelor, — I mean a single man* 

Sir Laurence. 
Oh ! out with it — an old Batchelor! there's a nickname 
to break a man's heart with ! Old Nick's ow n invention : 



— 20 — 

but IVe borne it for many a long year, and it's too late 
now to thint of getting rid of it : oh 1 if I bad but niar- 
ried Laura Pennington ! 

Susan. 
Oh , Sir ! why didn't you ^ 

Sir Laurence. 

Why, Susan, the fact was she was rather too tall ;--* 
not much,, just a degree above my standard : a sweet crea- 
ture though, and there was no other fault to find with her^ 
possibly 1 was wrong; but theriy there was Araminta 
Skinner ! 

SusaK. 

And pray who forbid the banns in that instance ? 
Sir Laurence. 

I did, Susan, I managed to break off before I committed 
myself; I tliink she was growing partial td me, most 
young women did in thos6 days, but all Of a sudden it 
struck me she was a littie too short ; then there was Maria,, 
sweet Maria I 

SUSAK. 

^ Well, Sir, how was it you did not make her Lady 
Paragon ? 

Sir Laurence. 

She was just a shade too brown; then Louisa was 
just an atom tocv fair ; then Fanny was too fat, and 
Theodosia too thin, and somehow or other in every girl I 
met there was a something....... 

Susan. 
Not good enough for such 3cjine growri young man !■ 



\ 



— 21 — 

Sm Laurence. 
Oh ! Susan, don't banter me ! Perhaps it is not too late 
to mend either ; is it Susan ? Hey ! what say you ? I al- 
ways admired you vastly. 

Susan, 
Aye, now 'tis your turn to banter ; but if you were in 
earnest, before our wedding day came you. would find 
me too this, or too that, or too father /•— 
Sir Laurence. 
No, 'pon my life, all that's gone bye. 

Susan, 
Indeed! then perhaps I should find the objection for 
myself — I'm too...... 

Sir Laurence. 

Too what ! 

Susan. 

Too youn^^ — don't be angry, I'll send my mistress to 
you, Sir. Bring your nephew and your ward together if 
you can ; I fear it's too late for you to think of matrimony. 
**If you aull not when you maf — you know the proverb; 
young batchelors who are too hard to be pleased, must 
make the best of a life of single blessedness. {Exit.') 

Sir Laurence. 

Aye, that's very true, but confound it, there's no such 
thing as single blessedness ; blessedness always carries 
double! — Well, after all, if I can bring about a match 
between my nephew and my ward, it will be a consola- 
tion to \n^. They have never met, and I begin to fear he 
is as particular as I used to be 5 but if Kale O'Brien does 



—22 — 

not charm him, he must be difficult to please indeed ! 
(jKate sings opithouf). Ah ! that is her glorious voice. 

Enter Kate O'Brien. 

Sir Laurence. 

My fair Ward, welcome. 

Kate. 

And welcome a thousand times, my own dear Guardian ; 
why, you look !.... 

Sir Laurence, 
— Oh! don't talk about my looks, its* a sore subject; 
fiction can no longer impose upon me, and Truth's the 
very devil ! I look like a fusty old frump, and tliat's the 
fact ; I wish it wasn't. But you look charmingly ! why, 
we have not met these two years ! what a catalogue of 
conquests you must have to give me, but no engagement, 
I hope ? 

Kate. 
Why, in affairs of l^ar the engagement comes before 
the conquest, does it not ? 

Sir Laurence. 
That may be, madcap ; but in affairs of Loi?e^ those eyes 
of your's vanquish, and then the engagement begins ! But 
you are not engaged, I hope ? 
Kate. 
Indeed, I am not, I am free as air, and am likely to 
continue so : but why are you so anxious about the matter? 
I thought you wish'd me to marry ! 
Sir Laurence. 
So I do, I want you to marry a man you have never 
seen. 



Kate. 
Thank you kindly, Sir, but I would much rather look 
before I take such a leap as that. 

Sir Laurence. 
So you shall look; and if after looking you will but 
lake the leap, old as I am I shall jump for joy. 
Ka'I'E. 
^Vell, Sir, and pray vVhere is the happy man who is 
to make me the happy woman ? 

Sir Laurence. 
He is at my house ; he is my nephew, and just like 
me — that is — ^just what I was at his age. 
Kate. 
Irresistible then, of course ! and is he as particular as 
you are reported to have been ? 

Sir Laurence. 
Why, to say truth, Frn afraid he is ; but that docs not 
signify, for the more fastidious he is, the more will he 
appreciate your perfections. Had I met with any body 

like you in my younger days ! well, well ; it can't be 

helped ! But, to confess the truth, my nephew does say 

that when he marries he must and will marry Perfection. 

Kate. 

Does he indeed ! Meaning no doubt that naught but 

perfection can pretend to match him! Well done, vanity ! 

Sir Laurence. 

Don't blame the lad, I v^^as just the same at his age. 

Kate. 
And you have reaped the advantages of your particu- 
larity : well, do you know I am as particular as your nephew ; 
1 never mean to marry 'till I meet with.... 



-4- 

Sir Laurence, 
rr-PerfectidR — hey ? 

Kate. 
No indeed, perfection would bore me to death ; my 
fancy in this ; I will never marry till I have convinced 
myself that I am fondly, fervently, exclusively, devo- 
tedly beloved. 

Sir Laurence. 
AVell, what then? My nephew has only to take one 
peep at you to be fondly, and fervently, and exclusively 
^nd devotedly your's.— 

Kate. 
No, Sir Lawrence, one peep will not do, I would 
rather he disliked me at the first peep, and loved me 
afterwards, than that he should be over head and pars in 
love at the first interview, and scarcely ancle deep when I 
J)ecame his wife. 

Sir Laurence, 

This is all nonsense ; I will send him to you, and I 

have no fears about the result; in you he will find the 

wife he wants, that is Perfection. Good bye, Kate, I'lji 

bring him to you this very day.— r ( Exit ). 

Kate. 

Perfection, forsooth ! well, I admire the man's vanity! 
I am to be trotted out like a steed for sale, to be coolly 
inspected, and if not deemed satisfactory, to be trotted 
in again ! No, no, Kate O'Brien has too much spirit for 
that -, they say 1 shall never marry, and if to all who 
pop questions, I continue answering with that chilling 
monosyllabic No I perchance I never may ! Well, perhaps 
at last niy turn may come ; and after all, V\\ not believe 



rtiat there is no true love in the world ; that the warmest 
and tenderest affections all end in coldness and >forgetr 
fulness—No ! 

SONG, 

ril not believe Love's w^reath will pain 

The hands that weave it ; 
That when no summer flowVs remain, 
Love's wreath becomes a galling chain— 

— ril not believe it I 

I'll not believe man wins a heart 

To pain and grieve it, 
That when sad tears unbidden start 
The once fond Lover will depart — 

—ril not bplieve it ! 

J'll not believe a bope liie'll raise 

But tp deceive it ; 
That in the wane of vvedded days, 
He'll slight the smile Love used to praise— 

rrr-l'U uot belicve it ! 



SCENE 2"^. 

!/fn apartment at Sir Laurefipe Paragon's. Charles Paragon 
reading ,' Sam mpvirfg things on the table. 

CHAi(LES. 

What are you fidgetting about ? do be quiet. 

Sam. 
I'm putting to rights , Sir : What a kind hearted gen- 
tleman your uncle is, but quite thrown away, if 1 may 



—26-. 

{^resume to say such a thing. If he had'iit been an old 
Batchelor, he'd have been the snuggest elderly person I ever 
saw ! Let it be a warning to you. Sir , if I may be so bold ; 
youVe miss'd your opportunities before now, you know, 
and you may da that pnce too often. 
. Charles. 
Upon my word ! free and easy ! 

Sam. 
Why, I didn't serve you at Oxford without knowing how 
to claim my privilege for old acquaintance ; do get a wife. 
Charles. 
Hold your tongue, Sam. I never saw the woman yet 
that I could conscientiously thi ow myself away upon. 

Sam. 
If you please to give me leave, Sir, I mean to alter my 
condition as soon as I meet a genteel comely body. 
Charles, 
.With all my heart, marry a plain cook if you like. 

Sam. 
No, a pretty Lady's maid. I c'ant help taking warning 
of your uncle, I'll marry forthwith. 
Charles. 
When you do, you'll please to take warning of me, and 
find another place : I'll have no incumbrances, no soothing 
solaces, no babes and sucklings on my establishment ; so, 
'\vlien you begin paying your addresses, Vll pay you your 
wages ; and when you mean to be any a^omans humble ser- 
vant, you'll please to remember you are no servant of mine. 

Sam. 
Well now, really, Sir, that is very hard : what an objec- 
tion you have to the lineneal //alter, yet I ca'nt help think- 
ing, that you'll marry one of these days notwithstanding. 



—27— 

Charles. 
Then, Sam, when you see my wife, you'll see a perfect 
woman ; and as that is a sight Ave are none of us likely to 
see, why, the probability is that you'll go to your grave 
without seeing my wife. But having given you my opinion 
of your own matrimonial plans, you will please to leaye 
me to my fate ; and moreover, as I see my uncle coming 
this way, you will also dome the very great favor of leaving 
the room. 

Sam. 
By all means, Sir. {Aside) I see my union, whenever / do 
make a selection, must be clandecent, for he'll never give ^ 

me a special licence ; but I'll be church'd in spite of him. 

{Exit) 
Enter Sir Laurence. i 

Sir LAURE^T.E. 
I'm sure it's an East wind, for I've a pain in my right 
shoulder, just like that I had in my left in my last rhumat- 
ism but one. Bless me ! Charles, what a habit you have j 

of not wiping your shoes at the street door, the stair carpets 
are all in a mess. ' 

Charles 
I beg your pardon, uncle, I have not been accustomed to 
a batchelor's house. 

Sir Laurence. 

Aye, Charles, that's it, you never were privy to an old 

batchelor's peculiarities; look to yourself then, and take 

warning of me. -That even /should live to be a scare crow ! 

Charles. 

They tell me, Sir, that you were very like what I now am. 

Sir Laurence. 
Umph ! There is a resemblance, certainly j but you have 



—28— 

not quite got the dimple I had in my chin — oh, you need 
not l^ok -for if now,- you'll see a wrinkle ir^tead ; but take 
warning, \ say 5 h^ye you thought of our last Conversation ? 
3 Charles. 

-' Sir Laurence — my dear uncle — almost anything I would 
•Willingly do to oblige you— but matrimony — no! there 
I must be obstinate. 

Sin Laurence. 
And why, pray— why? 

Charles. 
Oh, I adore the sex — yes, collectively they; are my idols 
— but to one individual of womankind never will I bend 
the jj^nee. 

Sir Laurence, 

That's all stuff, very proper rattle for a boy in his teens ; 
but five and twenty ought to be above it. Situated as you 
are, Charles, it is your duty to marry. 
Charles. 
Duty! ah Sir, prove it can be my pleasure and I shall obey : 
but why is it my duty?. 

Sir Laurence. 
Answer me, are you not my poor dear dead younger 
brother's only son ?. 

Charles, 
There's no denying it, uncle. 

Sir Laurence. 
Well, and I having no children of my own, are you not 
heir to my estate, and my Baronetcy ? 
Charles. 
Such is at present the fact, Sir ; but why force a pill down 
m/ throat which you never could be induced io swallow 



-29- 

yourself? why don't you many, why don't you hand down 
both title and fortune iti the direct line ? 
Sir Laurence. 
Oh nonsense ! no, I'm too old to marry- 

Charles. 
Not at all, you are very hale. 

Sir Laurence. 
Hale— yes — I hate the word— -hale's a very wintrf 
expression. I repeat, it is your duty to marry. 
- Charles. 
So I have been told ever since I was nineteen, and I sup- 
pose that is the reason I never have chosen a wife ; had I 
been the youngest son of a younger brother, with nothing 
but a curacy or a corn€t's commission, I dare say I should 
have been warn'd against matrimony, and should have run 
away with an apothecary's fifth daughter, and have been the 
happy father often blooming little nudities! But, seriously 
after all, I have really no very decided objection to matri- 
mony. 

Sir Laurence. 
Then why on earth don't you look about you? 

Charles. 
I do — positively, uncle, I Aavc looked, am looking, and 
shall or a>///look— ^But when I marry, my choice will not 
be an every day woman : my wife must be Perfection. 
Sir Laurence. 
Of course— 'at least yow will think her so. 

Charles. 
The world must think her so, or I shall not be content. 
She must have a faultless form, a faultless face, a faultless 
mind : she must be Beautiful, Graceful, Talented, Retiring, 
Conversible, Agreeable, Liberal; Animated...... 



.^ Sm Laurence. 

Hold ! stop ! mercy on me, there is no end to your list ! 

Charles. 
All this my wife must be. 

Sir Charles. 
Why, really it will be no easy matter to find such a 
a one, I admit : must she sing ? 

Charles, 
Like a Seraph. 

Sir Laurence. 
Must she draw ! 

Charles. 
Like Angelica Kauffman. 
t{iu>n^ ? Sir Laurence. 

, Must she dance ? 

Charles. 
Like a Sylph. 

Sir Laurence. 
Well, you are really a most unconscionable person, 
every accomplishment ! and perfect in all ! I was going 
to present you to a Fair Lady of my acquaintance, but I 
shall not do so now. 

Charles. 
DonH say so — any Friend of your's as an acquaintance 
— I can have no objection to ; but my ivife must be all I 
describe. 

Sir Laurence. 
All? 

Charles. 
All. 

Sir Laurence. 
Very well, say no more about it ; I shall not introduce 
yoM to Kate. 



—Si- 
Charles. 
Kate ? Did you say Kate ? Why not ? What Kate ? 
Which Kate ? 

Sir Laurence. 
Oh ! never mind, she is not Perfection. 

Charles. 
I dare say not, but who is she ? 

Sir Laurence. 
Kate O'Brien, the orphan daughter of General O'Brien, 
an old Irish friend of mine. 

Charles. 
Irish ? Aye — I understand — she has a brogue ? 

Sir Lavn^rence. 
No, on my honor — no brogue. 
Charles. 
Well, what they call a slight Irish accent then ? Yes, 
Yes — upon my faith now, a mighty pretty way of talking 
for an /ligant young famale ! 

Sir La\^^rence. 
Your ridicule is thrown away and misapplied ; my little 
friend Kate O'Brien has not an atom of her country's 
accent ; though if she had, I'm sure she has too much good 
sense to be ashamed of it. However, since you have 
thought proper to quiz her, I will not introduce you to her. 
Charles. 
Then, I'll be even with you : I'll find out her addres?, 
I'll pay her a visit, introduce myself and declare that my 
worthy uncle sent me. 

Sir La'wrence. 
Her address is easily found, for she lives in the next 
street ; but I know you will not have the assurance to 
call upon her. 



—32- 

Charles. 

I give y6u duel ttotiee that 1 will, and that within this 
hour ; so, uncle, when we meet again I shall have seen 
your wild Irish ward. Irish ! Ah, now faith Tm sure she 
has a hrOgue : I shall hear her calling to her maid from the 
top of the stairs— Meary — Meafy— water the ta and I'll 
be down immtzdiately— ^Ha, ha ha ! — {Exit), 

Sir Lawrence. 

That's the v(ray with them all ! tell them they shall and 
they tvow'/, tell them they sha'ni and they will I 'Twas ju^ 
the same with me, I was desired to marry by father, mo- 
ther, and maiden aunts, and here I am, one shrivell'd old 
pea in a pod, at sixty and odd years ! If I could but bring 
those two together, 'twould be something to look to : I 
should have a chance of a family party on Christmas day 
and new year's day, and Michaelmas day, and all the 
other daysy when family men have jollifications in the 
family way, and when nobody but old bati^helors sfi 
sulky by themselves ! Gad, Charles sha'nt take the girl %y 
surprise though ; I'll send her a note, and put her on her 
guard. (Exit). 



SCENE S"''.- 

An apartment at Kate O^Brien's. 

(Enter Susan.) 

Well, Gentlefolks cerlalnly are the strangest odd beings ! 
there's no understanding them! — My mistress, now — was 
born with a silver spoon in her mouth ! Spoon did I say r 
Law ! it must have been a soup ladle ! for she's got all 
the good things of the world about her, and yet she wo'nt 



-33- 

marry, and settle, and make herself agreeable ! but goes 
on refusing and refusing, till some day or other there'll 
be nobody to say ^^iVb" to : that's not my way ; I've thought 
the matter over very seriously, and I'm resolved to marry 
the first opportmiity. 

{Enter Sam). 
Who can this be, I wonder ? Dear me ! a very spruce 
young man, I wish I had put on my t'other cap. 
Sam. 
^^hat a very fine young person ! Pray, ma'am, are you 
Miss O'Brien's maid ? 

Susan. 
I am, Sir, her own maid. 

^AM. 

Gh ! you need not tell me that ; I saw at once you were 
an upper servant ; there's Lady's maid, ma'am, in all your 
motions. 

SUZAN. 

Oh ! Sir, you're vastly genteel, pray,* may I ask your 
business ? 

Sam. 
I've no business at present ; I mean to go into business 
when I marry, and when I look at you I wish that were 
t6 be this afternoon ! 

Susan. 
You misunderstood me ; what brought you here ? 

Sam. 
I come from Sir Laurence Paragon. 

Susan. 
Are you in his service? 

Sam. 
I am his nephew's man — his own man. 

3 



-34^ 

Susan. 

Oh ! you needa't tell me tliat^ I saw at once you were 
an upper servant, there's Gentleman's Gentleman in all 
your motions. 

Sam. 

At this present moment, I come from Sir Laurence, 
for Sir Laurence has really nohody on his establishment 
at all distinguished and responsible ; so he likes to employ 
me ; and I am very obliging. Here is a note for your 
Lady, there is no answer, and it is to be delivered imme- 
diately; it sounds very ungallant in me to say sO, but im- 
mediately was Sir Laurence's word. 

Susan. 

Dear ! dear !-^Then I must run w^ith it to my Mistress, 
she is in her Boudoir :— I hate this way of folding notes 
three^corner-wise. 

Sam. 

So do I, ma'am-^it curtails our information sadly ; I 
hope, ma'am, you visit Sir Laurence's housekeeper ; she 
i« vastly genteel. 

Susan. 
I do drop in there sometimes : good morning, Su-, tell 
M'^\ Fritter I shall pay her a visit. I wish you a very good 
morning. 

{Curtseys affectedly and exit), 

Sam. 
That is a woman ! my time is come, I feel ;— I must be 
married — I really am in love. — so I'll go and make a few 
enquiries about her wages, and her perquisites. 

{Exit). 



35- 



SCENE 4"'. 

Kate O'Brien s Boudoir : Large folding doors in the centre f 
au elegant couch with a handsome shawl lying on it, 

Kate. 

Heigho ! Why was I born to be an Heiress ? Envied by 
my own sex— perpetually teazed by the men ; and knowing 
but too we!i that I am sought only for my gold. Of one 
thing however I am resolved : I never will marry till I have 
good reason for knowing that I am loved for myself alone. 
( Enter Susan ). 
Susan. 

A note, ma'am : no answer, the young man said ; and 
a very nice, genteel looking young man it was ! 
Kate. 

You think of nothing, Susan, but nice young men ; go 
about your business. 

Susan. 

{Aside.) Well, Fm sure there's no harm in that, he was 
a very nice young man, that I will maintain. {Exit). 

Kate. 

{After reading the note.) From my good guardian Sir 
Laurence, and to inform me that, as I am to expect a 
visit from his nephew, he hopes I will appear to the 
best advantage, displaying, I suppose all my graces^ and 
none of my airs — {reads) : '^You. have only to exert the 
fascinations you possess, to win his heart and to make me 
your affectionate uncle" — Thank you kindly, Sir, I fear your 
partiality blinds you! But what shall I do with the nephew? 
The woman he marries must be perfection forsooth ! if 
he resembles Sir Laurence, I am sure to like him, and if so, 
1 may be templed to try and win him ; but it sha I be 



-36- 

without displaying one of the perfections which he has 
declared to be indispensable. He thinks to take me by 
surprise, but he shall not find me without a plot — Susan, 
are you there ? {Knock.') 

Susan. 
Yes, ma'an — ^there is a young gentleman knocking at 
the door — {aside) a very nice looking one too, but I don't 
dare say so. 

Kate. 
Wheel that sofa this way — there {throcos herself on it) 
now unfold my shawl. There — throw it over my feet — 
make haste — and now leave me. 
Susan. 
{Aside.) What can she be about ! I think she's out of 
her lunacies ! {Exit.) 

{ Enter Servant. ) 
Servant. 
Mr. Paragon is below, Madam. 

Kate. 
Show him in. 

{Servant shoivs in Charges Paragon and exit.) 
Charles. 
Madam, my uncle Sir Laurence Paragon being pre- 
vented calling with me as he had intended, I am obliged 
to introduce myself {Aside.) She is exceedingly pretty ! 
Kate. 
You will excuse my not rising to receive you, Sir ; 
Pray sit down. I am very happy to see you, the nephew 
of my father's old friend must always be welcome here.^ 
Charles. 
{Aside.) ^Yell, there is no brogue however, her manner 
is enchanting ! Madam, you are very kind, I am afraid I 



^3 



caird at an unseasonable hour, I have disturbed you ? You 

are reposing? perhaps you were sleeping? possibly 

dreaming! {aside). Why the Deuce don't she get up? 

Kate. 
No, Sir, you could not have called more opportunely. 
I have been looking over this endless portfolio of drawings. 
Charles. 
Drawings ! are you fond of the art ? 

Kate. 
Excessively, 1 could look at them for ever. 

Charles. 
{Aside.) Accomplish'd creature! I always said that when 
I did fall in love, it would be at first sight — and I do 
believe my time is come at last. 
Kate. 
What a delightful art painting is 1 to be able to perpe- 
tuate the features of those who are dear to us. 
Charles. 
Charming ! 

Kate. 
Or to treasure up remembrances of scenes in which we 
have been happy, but which we may never look upon 
again. 

Charles. 
Delightful ! 

Kate. f: . 

Or to copy the classical groups of antiquity, or form 
new combinations of graceful lovely figures ! 
Charles. 
Oh, your enthusiasm quite enchants me. 

Kate. 
Ah ! then you arc enthusiastic also ? * I 



—38- 

Charles. 
Prodigiously ! pray, my dear Madam, allow mc lo feast 
}ny eyes >vith some of your drawings : {aside) Angelic 
creature ! 

Kate. 
Sir— I — I — what did you say? 
Charles. 
Permit me to see some of your performances. 

Kate. 
I regret to say that / never had the least idea of dra^v- 
jng, my houses, my trees, my cattle, and my faces, are all 
one confused jumble of scratches. 
Charles. 
Not draw ? 

Kate. 
No— do you ? 

Charles. 
/ — oh no — but I quite misunderstood you ; I thought — 
{fisicle) dear me, what a pity such a creature should lack 
such an accomplishment, such a resource ! 
JCate. 
Is ^ny thing the matter. Sir ? 

Charles. 
Oh, nothing — {Aside) After all, tis but one accomplish^ 
fiient wanting, I've no doubt she has all the rest. 
Kate. 
Did you speak ?. 

Charles. 
I was saying, I never heard so musical a voice ! 

Kate. 
Oh! you fialler me ; you mentioned music, dp you not 
doal on iti' 



-39- 

Charles. 
Aye— there we do agree! the woman who sings !.... 

Kate. 
Yes, Sir! 

Charles. 

The woman who plays! 

Kate. 
Yes, Sir! 

Charles. 
The woman who does both \%ell, is a Divinity, you are 
enthusiastic in your love of music, I see you arc? 
Kate. 
I am, Sir! Music is my passion. Music in the morning! 
Music in the evening I Music at the silent hour of night ! 
Music on the water ! 

Charles. 
{Aside) What a woman ^le is ! 

Kate. 
Music at any hour ! 

Charles. 
Yes, or on any instrument ! 

Kate. 
Ah ! yes, from the magnincent organ, to the gentle lute ! 

Charles. 
Yes! delicious! 

Kate. 
Or a voice ! better than all, a soul entrancing voice ! 

Charles. 
{Aside) ^ There is no resisting her ! oh madam, sing ! 

Kate. 
Alas! Sir, how shall i mai;e the sad confession ? much 
as I love music — I can only listen ! 



—40- 

Charles. 
What! 

Kate. 
I have not a singing note in my voice, and no one ever 
could leach me to play 1 

Charles. 
{Aside) Was there ever such an impostor! Madam, you 
positively astonish me ! 

^ATE 

How so, Sir? can joz/ sing ? ' 1*^ 

Charles (sings). 
Oh ! no. We men are not expected to acquire these ac- 
complishments. But a woman — that is — I— I 

JCate. 
I know, Sir — you were goingto say that a woman without 
*hem, is little better than a Brute ! 
Charles. 
Madam ! how can you suppose I 

Kate. 
Aye, Sir, and I perfectly agree with you — But Sir, tis 
my misfortune — not my fault. 

Crarles. 
(Aside.) W hat a pensive tone of voice ! and what a 
countenance ! there can be no humbug there ! spite of hei 
lamentable deficiencies, I am fascinated! 
Kate. 
My fate is an unhappy one : I am an orphan as you 
know, and of course labouring under such manifest de- 
fects, I never mean tp marry, 

Charles. 
. Never mean to marry 1 

Kate. ..,,...,. 

Kever ! * 



-4— 

Charles. 
Oh ! Madam, in mercy to mankind, make not so rash, 
so inconsiderate a resolve ! 

Kate. 
Sir, it IS in mercy to mankind I make it ; what would 
be a fond Husband's sufferings were he to see the wife of 
bis bosom sinking under the degrading consciousness 
that she was unworthy of him ! 
Charles. 
Unworthy ! 

Kate. 
Would he not cast her from him ? Yes^— yes — he 
would do so ! I must live on unloved ! 
Charles. 
By Jove ! she is irresistible ! Madam, 1 adore you-r- 
listen to me — oh! listen and smile upon me — Hear me—- 
I love you — Oh ! love me — pray do ! {Kneels.') 

Kate. 

Sir, this is so unlooked for ! so unexpected! so 

.,y^ Charles. 
Nay, do not frown upon me, allow me to hope. 

Kate. 
Rise, Sir, — you may hope — but the surprise — the agita- 
tion—pray, ring that bell. 

Charles. 
She's going to faint ! (Bings the hell.) 

Kate. 

{Aside.) So then vanity will be humbled ; you will only 

wed Perfection ! We'll see that {aloud.) I must retire, 

my maid shall return and speak a few words to you, and 

then after having seen your uncle, you may visit me again. 

.^ - {Enter Susan.) 



t 



-42- 

Kate. 

Coiue here, Susan. {IVhispers to her.) 

SUSAM. 

Law ! Madam, it's not possible ! 

Kate. 
Obey me instantly, call the servant ! 

SusA^^ 
Oh! well- — ^I must — John, come here directly. 

Charles. 
(Aside.) What on earth does she lie there for ! 
(Enter Servant. ) 
Kate. 
Now, Susan, open those doors — John, wheel the sofa 
into the other room. Adieu, Sir— my maid shall return 
instantly. 

[She is (vheel'd into the next room^ and the folding 
doors are closed.') 
Gharles. 
Well, positively that is the laziest proceeding I ever 
witness'd ! By the bye, 'twas all my fault, 1 suppose she 
was too faint to move. — Oh ! here comes the maid. 
{Enter Susan.) 
Susan. 
(Aside.) Well, my mistress is mad, that is certain I 
But I must do as I'm bid. 

Sir Charles. 
How is your mistress? She's a charming creature, 
what a happy girl you are, what a sweet mistress you've got I 
Susan. 
She is charming — poor thing ! 

Charles. 
Poor thing ! What do you mean by poor thing F 



-43^ 

Susan. 
Oh ! it's very sad ! 

Charles. 
fVhat is sad ? 

Susan. 
You saw my mistress whisper to me ? 

Charles. 
Yes, to he sure, but there's nothing so sad in a whisper. 

Susan. 
Indeed but there is though ! she desired me to reveal 
the affair to you ; she had not courage to tell you herself; 
to be sure you must have known it sooner or later. 
Charles. 
.What can you mean ? You frighten me out of my wits ! 

Susan. 
It'fs ^ sad affliction to her, a very great defect ! She's 
Vfmch. %<} be pitied. 

Charles, 
A defect, another defect ! and I've conimitted mvsclf ! 

I've proposed ^Yhat is it ? 

Susan, 
Oh I Sif ! 

Charles, 
Speak out, do. 

Susan, 
Many years ago...,. 

Charles. 
Oh ! that's as b^d as "once upon a lime' — pi'^y go on, 
—make haste. 

Susan. 
My mistress wi^s thrqwn from hpr hprsc. 
• ''''' 



-44- 

Charles 
Yes ?-- Well ?— -she was not killed— so what then ? 

Susan. 
Fractured limb ! 

Charles. 
Oh !— What limb ? 

Susan. 
Leg—Broke it—all to bits! 

Charles. 
Well— speak.— 

Susan. 
Amputation ! 

Charles. 
What! 

Susan. 
She has got a cork leg ! 

Charles. 
A cork leg ! horror ! what have I done ? engaged my- 
self ! I shall go mad ! 

Susan. 
Good morning, Sir ; I must go, if you please, to give 
my mistress the stick. {Exit Susan,") 

Charles. 
Do ; by all means ; / deserve the stick most! I that said 
I would marry perfection ! I've bound myself to a frac- 
tion of a woman ! Desperation ! I shall go mad ! [Exit.') 



end of act first. 






-45- 

SCENE PK 
Room in Sir Laurence Paragons. Enter Susan and Sam. 

Sam. 

So you say my Master is actually going to marry her ! 
Bless the man ! theyll'be a three legg'd couple ! A matri- 
monial tripod ! Had he seen you when he proposed for 
your Lady r 

SUSAN- 
Ohlyes. Why?. 

Sam. 
Then I wonder at him ! That's all. 

Susan. 
Oh, you flatterer 1 

Sam. 
Let me see — you — stand pretty stoutish on your pins, 
don't you?. 

Susan. 
Nonsense, I'll hear no such remarks. 

Sam. 
Gad, I never saw neater timbers! you can stir your 
stumps with the best of them : — That ever my Master 
should marry a hoppikicky ! 

Susan. 
You'll not use such nicknames, if you please. 

Sam. 
Don't be angry — but you know she has a timber toe". 



-46- 

Why, my Master always used lo say his wife must he 
perfection, and now he lakes a woman whose hody turns 
upon a pivot Here he comes, and he seems in a desperate 
quandary, as if he was hunting for your mistress's t'other leg ! 
Susan. 
I'll leave you, Mr. Sam. My presence will only make 
him worse. I suppose I shall see him hy and bye at Miss 
O'Brien's ! Oh ! they'll he a sweet couple. {Exit^ 

Sam, 
Sweet couple! a couple of ducks : the hen standing 
on one leg, with the other tucked under her wing ! H6re 
he comes ! 

{Enter Charles.) 
Charles. 
I wonder if the wind is fair for America. Not that any 
other place would not do as well, only the farther off the 
way the better. 

Sam. 
Shall you dress for dinner. Sir ? Whaft shall I lay out? 

Charles. 
You'll have to lay me out soon, Sam ! Oh ! out of my 
v^ray — ru not change. — Oh Sam I I'm going to cha»j;e 
my condition.— I'm going to be married. 
Sam. 
Married, Sir ! Oh what a Lady you must have seen? I 
never thought you could find one perfect enough. At all 
events, when she saw jok, Sir, I warrant she put her 
best foot foremost. 

Charles. 
Best foot! Oh Sam ! But it does not signify-^ Where's 
my uncle ? 



-47- 

Sam. 
He is coming, Sir. 

Charles. 
Then you begone, Sam, you'll have to go in mourning 
for me very soon —go, Sam, go. 
Sam. 
{/Iside.) Master's mad! I suppose it's all along of Love ! 
Well, when I marry, my wife shall have her proper com- 
plement of limbs, however. {Exit and eni^r Sir Laurence .") 
Sir Laurence. 
(^Aside.) Foolish girl! I hale all plots.— She has told 
me of her mad schemes, and I must not frustrate them. — 
Here is the inconsolable ! I must affect ignorance. W ell, 
Charles, you have seen her, I suppose ; how is this ? You 
seem agitated! 

Charles. 
Well I may be, Sir! 

Sir Laurence. 
Explain ! 

Charles. 
I have at last done what you wished — yes — to make a 
long story short, I have offered Miss O'Brien my hand and 
heart. 

Sir Laurence. 
No I you delight me ! Tol de riddle lol ! 

Charles. 
Oh! don't dance about, uncle, you'll bring on your rhu- 
fiaatism. It is not a dancing business, I assure you. 
Sir Laurence. 
1 never was so happy ! Is she not perfect ? 

Charles. 
Perfect ! ah Sir, that is all as people may think. I fear 
yojihave not seen her lately. 



-48- 

Sill Laurence. 
Not lately— no — but is she not indeed Perfection ?. — =Yes. 
— And so, you have already thrown yourself at her feet? 
Cbarles. 
Feet! I wish that were possible! 

Sir Laurence. 
I knew how it would be, and I will say this f6r you, 
Charles, she is a fortunate girl. There's many a one 
would be glad to step in her shoes ! 
Charles. 
Shoes! alas! he knows not what he says ! She knows the 
substantive shoe^ only in the singular number ! she never 
buys a pair \ What are right and left to her s* 
Sir Laurence. 
You look as if you were in a hohhlej 

Charles. 
A hobble ! Sir, you lacerate me ! 

Sir Laurence. 
You have made but a lame love affair, I think ! But no\v 
tell me, you always said the woman you married should 
possess every perfection, every accomplishment. — Of 
course she draws .^ 

Charles. 
Why — no — she does not exactly possess that accom- 
plishment. 

Sill Laurence. 
Not draw ! dear ! dear ! Oh, well that can't be helpc?d. 
— Of course she sings. 

Charles. 
With humiliation I confess she cannot sing ! 

Sir Laurence. 
AVell, well! never mind. Don't be cast down'— at aii^ 
events, her dancing makes amends "^ 



-49- 

Charles. 
Sir , she is unable to dance. 

Sir Laurei^ce. 
Oh! but she shall dance with me; Gad! Til invite all 
the country round. Aye, I'll give her a hop ! 
Charles. 
Zounds ! it must be a hop^ if she has any thing to do with 
ir. But every word you say w^ounds me deeply, Sir, the 
fact is, she — she — she is a miserable object. 
Sir Laurence. 
A what! 

Charles. 
Mutilated ! 

Sir Laurence. 
Hall ! young man — Halt ! 

Charles. 
That is it, Sir — she is halt ! 

Sir Laurence. 
Halt ! what can you mean ? 

Charles. 
She has a cork leg ! 

Sir Laurence. 
A cork leg ! 

Charles. • 
You know the whole truth. 

Sir Laurence. 
My dear Charles ! but you did not propose.... 

Charles. 
Alas! I knew not of her misfortune till afterwards; 
but 1 have committed myself — as a man of honor, I cannot 
rclract. 

4 



— 5o- 

Sm Laurence. 

Oh dear me! Charles — my dear Charles— -my own 
nephew! you were not aware, youmM^if not — sha/lnot mar- 
ry her — Go to her, say I sent you, pretend to he in despair 
— Say I forhid you to marry her — say you can't marry 
without my consent ; explain, apologize, do any thing — 
lay it all upon me. You must he extricated, I'll go and con- 
sult my Lawyer — cheer up , lad, all will end well, {aside) 
That it will, no fear now, it will he a match. {Exit.) 

Charles. 

Poor Girl! poor Kate. — Why, how's this ! I am not in 
love, still I hope. What am 1 ahout to do? renounce 
her ! — see her no more? And why? because she is 
unfortunate! No, no — leave her to limp thro' the w^orld 
alone ? I'm no such cold hearted coward. — I'll fly to her, 
offer her this arm to lean upon thro' life. Poor Kate — poor 
dear girl — poor dear melancholy, mutilated Kate. {Exit,) 



SCENE ^-K 

Kate O'Brien's Boudoir: a Guitar on the table^ and 

drawings. 

{Enter Kate.) 
Kate. 
Will he come ? Alas no : I fear not, how can I expect it ! 
Hark! is not that his step? Yes, yes — 'tis he, and I am 
safe ! 

{Springs on the sofa^ throws her shawl around her, and palaces 
a stick by her side. ) 
{Enter Charles.) 
You come then once more. — You are welcome, you 
come to bid me farewell ? 






^Si- 
Charles. 
No, you wrong me, I come to throw myself at your — • 
to — to — to claim your hand. 

Kate. 
Ha ! consider — you will repent too late. 

Charles. 
No, I will «o/ repent: when I offered to be your protec- 
tor and friend, I knew not how much you needed both; 
and now that I do know it, do you think I will desert you? 

— Never ! 

Kate. 

Generous man? take my hand : when I forget your kind- 
ness, neglect and spurn me ! I have already endeavoured to 
show my sense of your goodness ; 1 have prepared a sur- 
prise for you : you seemed disappointed at my not being 
able to draw, and in your absence, I have tried to make a 
sketch — here it is. 

Charles. 

Wonderful ! what a likeness ! tis your own portrait ! 
Kate. 

I am glad you think it like ; take it, and remember 'tWas 

my first gift. 

Charles. 
Thanks — thanks — A thousand thanks ! 

Kate. 
You are fond of music too : like most young Latdies 
when they are asked to sing , I refused dXjirst\ but now j if 
you press me sufficiently, I may be induced to own I caa 
sing a Utile. 

Charles. 
Transport ! pray sing, I implore, 
{JCate takes her Guitar and sings. ) 



— 52-- 

Gaily the Troubadour touched his guitar, 
When he was hastening home from the war, 
Singing ''From Palestine hither I come." 
Lady Love ! Lady Love ! welcome me home. " 

% 
She for the Troubadour hopelessly wept, 
Sadly she thought of him when others slept, 
Singing" In search of thee would I could roam. 
"Troubadour! Troubadour I come to thy home." 

3. 
Hark ! 'tis the Troubadour breathing her name, 
Under the battlement softly he came ; 
Singing '* From Palestine hither I come, " 
Lady Love I Lady Love ! welcome me home ! 
Charles. 
The very style I doat on ! perfect ! perfect ! And now , 
what nev\' surprise have you in storefor me?. 
Kate. 
Only one ! ( a pause. ) 

(She rises slowly on the sofa.) 
Charles. 
Take care. You'll hurt yourself — lean on me — take 
the stick. 

{Gives her the crutch. Kate springs from the sofa and sings 

and dances lovnd him.) 

Charles. 

What am I to think ? 

Kate. 

Think ? Only that they have brought Machinery to very 
high perfection. 

Charles. 

Impossible ! nay, your leg never was fractured? 

Kate. 
It never was! 



-53— 



Chai^les. 
Hii^^a ! my wife is Perfection after all! She ^a* feet, 
and thus I /a// at them {kneels). 

{Enter Sir Laurence.) 
Sill Laurence. 
Keep him there, Kate, let him always be your slave. 

Charles. 
Oh uncle! she is perfection, and I am the happiest dog 
alive ! 

Sir Laurence. 
I knew her scheme, and the result delights me. But re- 
member your vanity has been humbled : you vowed you 
would marry Perfection ! You ! as if you deserved such a 
wife.— And now I have seen youimplorea girl to have you, 
who you thought had no accomplishments, and only one 
leg to stand upon ! 

Charles. 
I own it — yet, Kate, after all I suppose it must be admit- 
ted that Ihave not met with that monster a perfect woman, 
for you certainly have displayed one little failing ? 
Kate. 
Well, what is it, pray ? 

Charles. 
Fibbing — a cork leg ! oh fye ! 
Kate. 
Nay, I told no fib ! 

Charles. 
How so ?. 

Kate. 
/ have a Cork leg ^ absolutely ! tivn Cork legs ! for I was 
born in Cork., in the province of Munster , in my dear native 
Ireland ! 



-54- 

Charles. 

Cork ! Well, Sir Laurence, we must admit slje is a Cork 
model of a Perfect woman ! 

S'R Laurence. 

Too good for you, lad, depend on it. Oh that I had 
married such a woman ! .1 ,,. . ^ 

Kate.. 

Well, after all perhaps some may imitate me with ad- 
vantage, for I concealed from my Lover some of the 
accomplishments I possess, and consequently my Husband, 
finding me so much better than he expected, may think me 
Perfection ! And if those around me think favorably of 
the Lady of Munster, she cares not how often her lameness 
may return ; for she will trust for support on their indul- 
gent kindness. 



THE 



% 



FRAGMENT 



OF A 



POEM. 



RECTORY, 



St 



Canto 1^'. 

The Lady's Boudoir ! who shall dare 

To paint that scene of her seclusion, 
Where chosen treasures, rich and rare, 
Deliberately placed with care, 

Are meant to imitate confusion. 
The Rosewood tables to excess 
^' ith Porcelain and Chrystal strew'd, 
(As if to hint that awkwardness 

Must never venture to intrude). 
The escrutoire, the pen of gold, 

The scented wax, the tinted paper, 
The silver Cupid doom'd to hold 

The little pink transparent taper. 
The sun flower clock — (whose dial well 

May represent the golden flower, 
Mechanically made to tell 

In poetry the passing hour.) 
Some volumes too'^ in bindings such 
As fairest fingers love to touch, 
The Annuals in silken sets, 
Lightest of literary pets. 
The flowers, that seem as if ihey were 
Thrown idly, negligently, there ; 



—58— 

But all so tastefully arranged, 
That were one little blossom changed, 
The fragrant group at once would lose 
Its charm, the harmony of hues. 
Say, can a mortal maid presume 
To venture here with mop and broom ? 
No, surely while the menials sleep 
Good Fairies nightly vigils keep ; 
They dust each fragile ornament, 
Beplenish evVy vase with scent. 
Wind up the clock, fold scented paper 
In forms of spells, to light the taper, 
They lave each precious China dish, 
And feed the gold and silver fish. 
The Lady's Boudoir ! Who shall trace 
The tout ensemble of the place ! 

And there the Lady sits upon 

The easiest of easy chairs, 
And murmurs in a pensive tone 

One of last season's opera airs : 
She starts as if the melody 
Had roused her from her reverie, 
She rises, to the window goes. 

And pulls aside the muslin curtain. 
And sighs, for very well she knows 

That day's imprisonment is certain : 
She nothing sees but leafless trees. 
And snow flakes borne upon the breeze/ 
No ride, no walk — the thought was vain, 
The muslin curtain falls again. 



She stirs the fire, yet who can doubt 

She is unconscious of the action ? 
She very nearly puts it out, 

In her intenseness of abstraction ! 
And now she sits again, and leans 

Upon her band her beauteous brow, 
And meditates on distant scenes, 

And friendly faces absent now. 
At length the feelings that were pent 
So long in silence find a vent ; 
^ ilh no one in her solitude 

To answer what she may advance, 
She leaves her meditative mood, 

And thus her thoughts find utterance : 
*^ril ask him— why should I defer 

One moment making the proposal ? 
And should he stingily demur, 
Uncourteously refusing Her 

To whom in point of fact he owes all ; 
/ am not worse off than before — 
I'll ask— though asking is a bore : 
And I an Heiress ! there's the sting ! 

I should have paus'd, had I conjectured 
That I could ask for any things 

With such a dread of being lectured : 
I'm sure / thought that Heiresses 

When married ai^vays were looked up to, 
And treated as Divinities, 
.Whom it was man's first thought to please 

And kneeling — hold out pleasure's cup to : 
Heigho ! rU ask him"— 

And she goes 
To the study of Sir Hampton, Rose. 



-6o- 



IVe Lreath'd his name ! and so already 
The reader knows this lonely Lady, 
The Lady Hampton Rose — so well 
Remember 'd as a reighiiig Belle, 
Who married twienly years ago^ 
A Baronet whose purse was low. 
And time who frequently displaces 

The tints that Females fain would fix, 
Has left her full of bloom, and graces, 

Fat, very fair, and thirty six. 
But let us follow to the door 

Where now reluctantly she lingers, 
Half leaving it — and now once more 

Touching the lock with trembling fingers. 
She knocks and gently cries *' My dear, 
" Sir Hampton — answer — ^are you here ? " 

And may we pause to ask the cause 

Why Time that should make fond ties stronger, 
Thus oft a chilling barrier draws 

'Twixt hearts that beat like one, when younger? 
Alas ! what seeming triples lead 

To such a mutual change of feeling, 
So unimportant, that indeed 

We scarcely miss the links they're stealing : 
And yet those several links combined 

Form the light fetters of affection. 
Uniting lovers, heart and mind, 

Bui which in married life we find, 
Oft only live in reccolleclion ! 

The coiifidcnce unlimited — 
The eves ihat seem by uituilion, 



Before a single word is said, 
To guess, and answer each petition : 

Ah ! why do such things pass, and why 
The heart's exclusive fond devotion ? 

And leave the inattentive eye, 
The cold, or querulous reply. 

The longing after locomotion ! 

There have been Mortals, and there are, 
Less changeable and happier far ; 
Who share the summer days of life 
As lovers still, tho' man and wife : 
And when misfortune's frowning form 

Comes near them with her wintry weather, 
They cling, like children in a storm. 

More closely lovingly together. 
These boast a bliss (oh well I know 

The truth of what I say ) 
Which Fortune never can bestow, 

And never take away. 
But I digress, and I confess 
This habit carried to excess 
Is very wrong, and we return 
The Lady's cause of care to learn, 

Tis evident we are too late 
To hear her open the debate. 
The Lady leans back in her chair 

By her own eloquence exhausted, 
Yet looks with a triumphant air 

At him so fluently accosted ; 
As if she meant to say:'' now answer, 

*' Yes, and refuse me if you can, Sir. " 



-62- 

Sir Hampton Rose was one of those 

Provoking men of looks so mild, 
That any hody would suppose 

They might be manag'd by a child. 
And when they say an angry word, 
A voice all gentleness is heard ; 
And while the calm eyes acquiesce 
And with the placid cheeks say " yes, " 
The tongue is very apt io give 
A most decided negative. 
He had a tantalizing way 
Of listening to all you say, 
Or rather seeming so to do,. 
And looking calmly up at you 
V^ ith such a smile, that your success is 

Apparently beyond a doubt ; 
Yet when you finish, he confesses 

He is not able to make out 
What your long Speeches are about ! 

E'en now he heard his Lady speak. 
With that tranquility of cheek, 
W Inch made his words the more provoking. 
'' Are you in earnest, Love, or joking? " 

But Lady Rose's glance possest 

No indication of a jest, 

When thus Sir Hampton she addrest : 

*' You know I am in earnest, (pray 
*' Do'nt smile in that unmeaning way) 
'' My wishes very well you know.— 
*' ( Im sure my temper is a miracle ! ) 



-63- 

" I've told you where I wish to go — 

** ( Don't look so hideously satirical. ) " 
*' For eighteen months we have heen here, 
*' And really at this time of year, 
*' This mansion is so very tiiste^ 
" So very sombre ! " 

" Not the least, 
** It is a very charming spot, 
" And you were born here, were you not ? 
*' Pray don't apologize, my love, 
^' / find no fault with Granby Grove, 
'* 'Twas mine the day I married you, 
** Your maiden name was Granby too. 
" Trifles seem therefore precious here, 
^' Don't call it sombre, don't, my dear. " 

'' My dear'' indeed! that's too absurd! " 

*^ My Lady then, is that the word ? 

* ' Or may I use your christian name ? 

^' Laura! I'm surely not to blame 

*' For checking you when you disparage 

" Your own estate, Love — mine by marriage. 

*' 'Tis your's, " her Ladyship replied, 

'' 'Tis your's, it cannot be denied ; 

" 'Tis your's, and yet I dearly love 

" Each little twig of Granby Grove : 

" Those twigs were mine, oaks, beeches, firs, 

" All planted by my Ancestors. 

" But when you thought it wortli yoiir while 

*' To take me and my twigs — ( dun't smile ), 



-b4- 

* ' I little thought that I should he 

** Myself as rooted as a tree, 

** With no amusement, nothing new : 

'* My daily walk the avenue, 

'' My most exciting avocation 

** To watch the course of vegetation ; 

'* Upon the little twigs to see 

*'- The spring buds in their infancy, 

* ' And watch them still, 'till each receives 

*' Its summer modicum of leaves ; 

** My Autumn pastime to discern 

'^ How very yellow leaves can turn ; 

'* My winter — misery ! — to fix 

*' My eyes on trees transform'd to sticks ! " 

But a matrimonial duett 

In an awkward key is sometimes set ; 

And tho' the tw^o performers may 

Be quite in earnest with their airsy 
Let a third person steal away 

And go and mind his own aiFairs. 
They often touch discordant chords. 
Make use of inharmonious word?. 
With voices rais'd ioo high to he 
Compatible with melody : 
We may remark the Female voice 

Is always highest reckon'd ; 
And in the Duos of her choice 

The man sings always second. 
And thus it is when man and wife 
Step on the boundaries of strife ; 



—65- 

The moral or satiric pen 
Should touch the paper lightly then ; 
And tho' it may he well to state ^ 

The aim, and end, of the debate, 
( Just as at distance, we might get 
A note or two of the Duett, 
And know to what tune it is set.) 
Yet if the argument — (or song) 
Grows very loud, as well as long. 

We, knowing what 'tis all about, 
Should leave the parties, right or wrong. 

To sing it — or to talk it out. 

What arguments the Lady us'd, 
How long the Gentleman refusM, 
The many tears the former shed. 
The many words the latter said. 
The pros enforced with so much skill. 
The ready cons that met them still, 
These to my muse are things occult, 
She hastens on to the result. 
A spring in Town was what she wanted ; 
A spring in town at length is granted ! 
Sir Hampton has a wicked way 

Of saying * ' no " for the sake of saying it, 
Though all the time perhaps he may 
Mean to say '' yes ".—Yet half the day 
He'll shake his head at what you say, 

And spoil concession by delaying it. 
When Lady Rose had work'd herself 
Into an unbecoming rage. 
He took a volume from a shelf, 
Deliberately read a page, 



-66- 

And then looked up with that calm smile 
Which ne'er had left him all the while, 
And said: '* perhaps you'll like to know 
* * I always meant that we should go. " 

A man may sneer at female reasons 
For longing after London seasons, 
But happy Lady Rose, thy Lord 
Turns thither of his own accord : 
Thou niight'st have argued all day long, 

Until exhaustion made thee stop, 
Urging that parents niust be wrong 

W hq let their old connections drop ; 
Thou might'st have said thy son and heir 

Was old enough to see society , 
Or that thy daughter young and fair 

Might be presented with propriety. 
Or secretly thou might'st have had 
Visions of thine own beauty clad 
In Rohe de Bal (of Carson bougth) ; 
At Almack's too — too flattering thought ! 
Or smiling forth with braided locks, 
From a best circle opera box : — 
This never would have done ; amusement 
Offers Sir Hampton no inducement, 
Unless the amusement chance to be 

One of his own selection ; 
And then indeed assuredly 

He could see no objection, 
j^d long he furtively hath eyed 

The hobby that he means to ride, 



-67- 

( And pleasing is that Hobby's pace 

To those who never tried her, 
Though in the amble or the race 

She's apt to throw her Rider ! ) 
Ambition! (understand me , pray), 

Ambition in a quiet way, 
Not of that very lofty kind 

AVhich sighs for reputation's *' bubble , " 
'Till to his keeping are consign'd 
Responsibilities that grind 
The powers of body and of mind 

With *' double, double toil and trouble. " 
Not so : Sir Hampton had, in short, 
( Or thought he had ) a friend at Court, 
A cousin in the Cabinet, 
And though 'twas long since they had met, 
And though not very clearly knowing 
What recompense he hoped to get. 
He thought he should be right in going 
At once, and to the Courtier shewing 

His relative the Baronet. 
He was aware that the Relations 
Of men in Public situations, 
Instead of pocketing vast sums 
Can scarcely pick up paltry crumbs, 
Since unenlighten'd eyes persist 
In peering at the pension list. 
And Ladies Jane no longer young. 
From Peers right honourably sprung, 
Must now give up, oh sad reverse ! 
Their income from the public purse ; 
A stinted pittance to receive, 
Waning from some noble Relative, 



• -68- 

Who thinks the Public ought to grant 
A pretty income to his aunt ; 
Not much — sufficient to enable 
The dame to keep a social table, 
Champagne, and customary courses, 
A house in town, landau and horses. 

And sine cure ( which, when translated, 

Without a cure once seemM to mean) 
Is now an evil so abated. 

That those who for snug things have waited 
With lengthened visages are seen : 
And those who really used to hug 
Things most inestimably snug, 
And to their annual thousands had 
Another — perhaps two, to add. 
The gift of some most noble cousin. 
Who thus hath delicately chosen 
His own relations to assist, 

And sop their daily bread with honey, 
By putting them upon the list 

Of those who drain the public money ; 
They know the cure is nearly finished 
And talk , with incomes much diminished, 
About '^ the good old times "and sigh 
Relinquishing a luxury ! 

Oh ! who would bear the degradation 
Of being pension'd on the nation ? 
Who that already has enough 
To buy an independant loaf, 
Such stipend would consent to take , 
To turn the loaf into a cake ? 



-69- 

Or who that goes on foot to day , 
Erect upon the King's highway, 

So meanly, despicably feels, 
A gilded carriage he'd prefer. 
If he must be a Pensioner 

E'er be can buy the toy on wheels ! 

Mistake me not, it would be hard 

If those who struggle through the strife, 

The ceaseless toil of public life. 

Were grudg'd their well deserv'd reward. 

Not so — The Pensioners I mean 

Are useless beings I have seen, 

Without one talent that can claim 

For them publicity of name, 

Yet who have thus been public debtors ! 

And yet a look of pride they wear, 

A high aristocratic air ! 

As if their independent neighbours, 

W ho earn their incomes by their labours, 

1 he apothecary and the lawyer, 

W^ho must bow down to their employer, 

Were not beyond compare iheir betters ! 

But I digress, and I confess 

This habit carried to excess 

Is very, very wrong, and so 

I said at least an hour ago. 

Sir Hampton has with Granby Grove 

Five thousand pounds a year. 
Means adequate for those who love 
In a provincial scene to move, 

But not enough, I fear, 



For such as fain would shine in this 
Luxurious metropolis ; 
But then, Sir Hampton Rose expected 
That, being very well connected , 
He might engage a residence. 

From rents exorbitant refraining. 
And live at moderate expense. 

More entertained than entertaining. 
In fact, he thought if He could meet 
A small abode in Baker Street, 
Or Gloucester Place, or any wherq 
Contiguous to Portnian Square, 
Or in another distant quarter, 
jNow strew'd all over brick and mortar, 
Cadogan Place, or Eaton Crescent, 
Or Sloane street, mere remote than pleasant, 
\S here'er in fact his home might be, 
He thought that he should daily see 
The cards of the nobility ; 
And an engagement book o'erfiowing 
.With all the very best things going. 

This was a secondary thought ; 

What higher things Sir Hampton sought, 

He nam'd to none ; and Lady Rose 

Now to her Boudoir gaily goes, 

And whilst her own maid Jane, displaying 

Her skill, adjusts her evening gown. 
She half distracts the girl by saying : 

"Next Monday week we go to Town." 

End of Canto 1**. 



• 



-71- 



CANTO SECOND. 



Sweet is the earliest breath of spring, the unexpected ray, 
I'hat peeping out throws warmth upon a February day ; 
We hall the lengthened hours of light, the softness of the breeze, 
And almost wonder why we see no leaves upon the trees* 
And here and there upon the earth the Crocuses are seen 
The golden buds that nestle in their cradles of light green, 
And Snowdrops delicate and pale, that droop, as if in fear 
Of coming from their warm repose so early in the year. 

And ihere^s a path at Granby Grove, where the earliest spring day 
Shines forth, as if March meant to steal the livery of May ; 
The first of birds, assembled there, rehearse their summer song, 
And a rivulet flows murmuring melodiously along. 

Oh! Rivulets, bright Rivulets, ye are the gentle friends 
Of him upon whose lonely walk no human form attends ; 
And as he sits beside ye, with a soft and soothing tone, 
Your voices seem to speak to him af joys for ever gone ; 
Ye call up other voices too, unheard for many years, 
And ye give to him who mourns the dead — the luxury of tears. 
How often have we heard it said that in December days, 
The lonely being loves his hearth's companionable blaze ! 
But Rivulets, bright Rivulets, when social hearths are dim. 
The mourner seeks your mossy banks, ye are the Friends for him. 
Upon the path that I have nam'd, two youthful Lovers stood 
And seem'd to watch the rivulet in meditative naood. 






-72- 

But I must pause to sketch them both : the Girl was seventeen ; 
A form and face so beautiful but seldom has been seen, 
Her name was Mary, and there was a something when she smil'd, 
About her lips, that told you she was Lady Rose's child, 
A lurking laughter-loving look ; but in her nobler face 
A high expression dwelt, of which her mother had no trace, 
A touch of sentiment and thought: you read as in a book, 
.Whatever mischief might betide that laughter-loving look. 
That still, within her secret soul lay principles so pure, 
That in temptation Mary Rose could ne'er be insecure. 
Her lips were red, her eyes were blue, her skin extremely fair. 
In ringlets o'er her snowy brow she wore her light brown hair. 
In ringlets, art's most pleasing style, for ringlets oft run wild 
Round nature's sweetest dwelling place, the features of a child. 
Not Coiffee'd by a cruel hand— not strain'd into a load 
Of hard and heavy looking bow's, perhaps the latest mode, 
Invented surely by some fiend, who fain would thus displace 
(No very practicable task) the charm of woman's face. 
Slight was her fairy figure, as her mother's might have been, 
"When first she knew Sir Hampton Rose, a bride at scarce sixteen. 
And Mary by her Lover stands, and seems as if in dread 
That she had hurt his feelings by some rash word she had said. 
This Lover was her cousin — a distant one of course. 
But cousin is a weighty word — few people know its force. 
A first, perhaps a second cousin, Ladies need not dread— 
But if you have one more remov'd — remember what I've said : 
He'll talk of his relationship — but 'tis a ship he'll sink 
The moment it occurs to him Love forms a better link — 
Each day he'll walk, each day he'll talk, and every day you'll see 
A hundred little things that prove how pleasant he can be ; 
W^hen triflers try to win a smile, he'll step before a dozen, 
And whisper, while you laugh and say : '* He onlyis my cousin ; " 



-73- 

And at a pic-nic party, when prudent parents seek 
To keep all gay adventurers and younger sons in check, 
They always have this ready mode of ending the quandary : 
^' Oh let us send for cousin Edw^ard, he'll take care of Mary. 

And Mary's cousin Edward was a cousin of this kind : 

Unlimited companionship their hearts had closely twin'd, 

In all the sorroUs of her youth — ten minutes would suffice 

To take her to the Rectory for comfort and advice ; 

In all her little charities, the same judicious voice 

Would name to her the pensioners most worthy of her choice : 

Her chamber too at Granby Grove was chosen for its view, 

Though other chambers had a more extensive one, lis true — 

But as she sat there, she could see the tower of the church 

W ith the gable of the Rectory, and its ivy mantled porch. 

But Edward was no Rector : the reader must be told 

That he was left an orphan boy , at only six years old. 

His father was a younger son, his mother poor as fair, 

To virtue and good looks in fact their only child was heir, 

And heir, alas ! to little else. But in our early years 

A kind hand seldom tries in vain to wipe away our tears, 

And poverty is then unfelt ; we cannot have been taught 

How many worldly smiles by worldly riches must be bought. 

At Granby Edward found a home, and Mary and her brother 

In striving to amuse him seem'd to rival one another. 

Mary was then three years of age, and little Edward tried 

To teach her how to run about, protecting her with pride, 

And as they older grew, their task, their sports were still the same, 

For Mary left her governess, and to the Boys she came. 

To help her brother mend his kite, or look at Edward's boat, 

Which down the little rivulet in gallant trim would float. 



-74- 

And when the lads to college went, Miss Mary used to think 
That writing to her brother John was a wicked waste of ink ; 
He was a correspondent^so abominably dull. 
But Edward always answered her, and his letters were so full 
Of kind remarks and pleasant news I no trifle was forgotten ; 
She read them over every night, and put them by in cotton. 

Oh what a beauteous thing is Love ! how happy and how pure 

Thus springing up in two young hearts, from present ills secure, 

Assuming Friendship's name , it quite forgets that Fr lends must sever , 

As if young cousins thro' the world walk'd hand in hand for ever. 

A fountain in a lonely vale resembles such a dream : 

—Now nothing but the clear blue sky is mirror'd in the stream, 

Beside the valley's loveliest path its infancy is led, 

Its bank is lined with violets, with softest moss its bed. 

But the stream must leave the lonely vale, the violets and the moss, 

And struggle on into the world, where restless billows toss. 

It's purity reflects no more the bright expanse above. 

And the calmness of its course is lost ! — oh ! is't not so with Love ! 

By the Curate's side stood Mary Rose, unwilling to discuss 
Some painful subject — suddenly he broke the silence thus : — 
*' Forgive me, Mary, oh! forgive the selfishness of heart 
* * That would detain you longer here, 'tis time that we should part ; 
** I might have known it could not last, I might have known that bliss 
** So pure, so perfect, ne'er was meant for such a world as this : 
*' And, Mary, I will own to thee, that in some pensive mood 
*' The thought of being torn from thee unbidden would intrude ; 
" But I have hush'd the warning voice — I drove the thought auay, 
*' I knew that we must part, but still put off the evil day; 
" And in thy presence soon forgot that such a day must come — 
" — But wliy do I distress thee thus? — my anguish should he dumb. 



-75- 

'-'■ It shall be so. — Yes — though I break my heart by the endeavo' 

* * Henceforth Til utter no complamt.-Fare well— farewell for evei 

" For ever ! Edward, tis unkind ! For ever ! " Mary said, 

* * Oh think when first/oM went from home, what bitter tears I shed; 
'• But I never breathed such cruel words : I plac'd implicit trust 

^ * Upon a Friend's fidelity — shall Edward be less just ! 

'^ You said you would remember me, and did I not believe ? 

' ' I promised I would write to you, and did I then deceive ? 

' • No, Edward, no-^we met again as happy as before, 

** And, dearest cousin, even now weVe happy days in store. 

* * Say'^Cousin — yes, that word they will notbid thee to forget — 
'* Say Cousin — but we never more shall meet as we have met, 
** Aye, call me Cousin in the world, it surely will be hard 

** If thou may'st not bestow on me a cousin's cold regard. 

* * Biit I renounce the chilling word'.— 

" Oh, Edward, say not so — 
** Thou'rt angry, Edward, let me hear kind words before I go. — 

** Kind words' ! I know not what I say — but novice as thou art 

^* In wordly ways, consider, is it thus that Cousins part? 

*' Were I thy Cousin only, at the altar I could stand 

'* Andcalmly breathe a blessing whilea Husband press'd thy handj 

^* But is it so ? no, Mary, no — thou canst not be my wife, 

*^ And the loneliness of blighted hope is Edward's lot for Life. 

♦' Alas! I never loved thee with the common love of Earth, 

*^ The love that vaunts its proud success in revelry and mirth, 

'^ My Love was nurs'd in secret, like a blossom that has furl'd 

*' All its sweet leaves from the notice and the sunshine of the world 

—Mary was weeping while be spoke ; at length she rais'd her head 
And looking in his face, almost inaudibly she said : — 



-76- 

' * Edward, you never spoke of this — and have we not heen wrong 

' * — Yes, both of us — to close our eyes against the truth so long ; 

*' And now that you address me thus, perhaps I should rely 

" On some more tranquil prompter than my heart, for a reply; 

'* But no, if you have been to blame, at least that blame I share, 

" And I cannot listen calmly to those accents of despair ; 

** If you are wretched, / am so ; hereafter be more kind, 

' ' And think that Mary shares the grief of him she leaves behind. " 

There was a pause — a blissful pause ; — but the Poet drops his pen : 

There are no words that can describe the lover's rapture then ; 

And the Painter would be fortunate who faithfully could trace 

The beautiful expression of his fair though manly face. 

As his arms supported Her who had been lov'd so many years, 

.Who with her head upon his heart, was smiling thro' her tears. 

"Who is there that cannot remember moments when he cast 
From his bosom every feeling for the Future and the Past, 
And in the Present wholly lost, beholding all most dear. 
Forgot to hope — forgetting there was such a thing as Fear! 

ButMary^s sweet lips broke the spell : ''Oh hasten", she exclaim'd, 

'' To my Parents, to my Parents, Love ,this meeting must be named; 

' ' — It has been named, " said Edward, and his cheek grew pale and cold, 

' ' It has been named ; — to both of them my passion has been told, 

' ' Byboth that passion has been spurn'd, and this brief meeting o'er, 

*' My Mary will be torn from me : we part to meet no more ! 

But we must leave the Lovers now — too long we have intruded. 
And prying eyes from parting scenes should always be excluded. 

END OF CATSTO SECOND. 



-77- 



CANTO THIRD. 



Were I a country villa to select, 

Like Granby Grove in every respect, 

Park Uke, and pretty ; one of those estates 

With two approaches, and with two lodge gates ; 

I never would be tempted, for the sake 

Of glen and mountain, cataract and lake, 

To chuse a dwelling in its summer dress. 

Six hundred miles from London, (more or less) 

W^ithout one human habitation near, 

And roads impassable one half the year. 

The summer choice of such a tenement 

Leads to " the winter of our discontent. " 

And oh ! as little would I like to own 

One situated near a country town, 

So near that Mistress this^ or Mistress thai , 

Could drop in of an afternoon to chat; 

So very near, that e'en old maids could take 

The walk to gossip over wine and cake, 

And yet so far, 'twere cruel, when they come. 

To send them back again with *' not at home, " 

Place me the town precisely five miles off, 

For all my wants and wishes near enough ; 

The mail will leave my letters at the gate ; 

And tho' perhaps pedestrians must wait, 



■-78- 

And yearly club together, and approach 
In a landau — ( the Angel's old glass coach ), 
Between these visits months must intervene, — 
!Not angel ones — tho' few and far between. 
And o'er the luncheon tray we then shall hear 
Provincial Politics just once a year ; 
The sly remark that certain people deem 
That certain people are not what they seem^ 
Adding that certain other people know 
They are, or were, or will be so and so; 
The confidential whispers of the day, 
Still whisper'd in a confidential way, 
Till confidants the whispers wide diffuse 
And all the smiling circle shares the news. 

But Granby Grove is only two short miles 

From Granby Town ; and those who do'nt mind stiles, 

May walk across the fields, a shorter way, 

Call late, and then judiciously delay. 

And stay and dine ; — if they are ask'd to stay. 

The Grove is therefore often throng'd with visitors^ 

The favour'd haunt of feminine inquisitors. 

Think not from this the vile opmion mine 
That the word Gossip must be feminine ; 
For I have seen the male, and frankly stite 
The coat and waistcoat (iossip most 1 hate. 
For " trilles light as air" may well engage 
The Single Lady of a certain age, 
Who lives alone, with eyes too dim to find, 
With book or needle, pastime for the mind^ 
To Her it would be cruelty to grudge 
The observatory where she loves to lodge, 



—79— 

In the High Street, just opposite the shop 
Where customers continually stop ; 
l^'^ith a bay window, where from her snug seat, 
She has a prospect up and down the street, 
Picks up the latest rumours, one by one, 
Hears more than ever was or will be done, 
And nightly takes her tea chest from the shelf, 
And tells to others what she heard herself. 

But look whithout abhorrence, if you can 

Upon a Gossip in the shape of man ; 

Man, in whose avocations you expect 

Some trace of energy or intellect. 

The book, the pen ; or else, with those who shun 

These home pursuits, the courser and the gun. — 

A/Ve turn to Lady Rose, who blithe and gay, 

Holds her last levee at the Grove to day. 

We find her seated by a portly dame, 

In silk and swan's down ; Plimpton is her name, 

W^ife of a Banker , proud to represent 

One half of Granby Town in Parliament. 

** What, off to morrow! " she exclaims, " my Lady, 

'* And here you sits ! you never will be ready ; 

** I keeps you from your packing , I'm afraid — 

'"'■ But law ! — you leaver all i?,.em things to your maid ! 

* ' / doe* all that myself — safe bind safe find — 

*^ I sort* the articles of every kind, 

** The heavy things at bottom — light at top— 

'' I put5 my hand upon 'em when we stop, 

*' Like a phenolemon, in fact you see, 

** I always doe* it all for Mister P. 



~8o— 

*'■ We gO£?5 to Town next week, the House of Commons 

*' Has sent my poor dear man some sort of summons. 

'* If He sits up all night to hear them speak, 

'* If will anniliate him in a week, 

** But I suppose if he do'nt go there now, 

*' The king will miss him, and there'll he a row : 

** Great men, my Lady, lead^ most shocking lives, 

' ' And so Tm very sure do great men^s wives ! 

*' I sha'nt know no one up in Town, I fear, 

** But as we live^ contagious like down here , 

* * I hopes to meet you in a friendly vvay, 

** I'll let you know our house, good day, good day. 

Off waddles the great man's great wife ; and now 
Comes a young Clergyman with simp'ring how, 
(Not Mary's cousin and acknowledged Love, 
The Curate of the village near the Grove) 
The Curate of the Town, and prouder far, 
A Preacher aiming to he populan 
And pulpit popularity is not 
His only aim, far from it, he has got 
A longing after notoriety, 
Whatever the pursuit may chance to be. 
None dress so well as the Reverend Mr. Flinn, 
And then how hlack his hair ! how white his skin ! 
The last new cut in coats, if you would own, 
The Reverend Mr. Flinn 's in new from town. 
To see him riding is a perfect treat. 
The Reverend Mr. Flinn has such a seat ! 
No Granhy hall without his aid can answer. 
The Reverend Mr. Flinn is such a dancer! 
First on the list at concerts he is reckon'd. 
The Reverend Mr. Flinn sings such a second! 



-8i- 

Dames who at Whist love partners who can win, 

Look kindly on the Reverend Mr. Flinn. 

At water parlies he is always present, 

The reverend Mr. Flinn can he so pleasant. 

At Archeries, the arrow is put in 

The Bull's eye by the Reverend Mr. Flinn ! 

Some mothers, and Daughters too, assert 

The Reverend Mr. Flinn is apt to flirt ; 

Yet marriage surely were a greater sin 

In one so poor as the Reverend Mr. Flinn ! 

A ''^ Ladyship^'' is always sure to win 

Attention from the Reverend Mr. Flinn. 

And though more flattVing compliments are heard 

AVhen speaking to the Lady of a "X«rd"', 

The bow and smile he never can forget 

Due to the Lady of a ^^Baronety 

And doubly interesting she appears. 

When in the rural coterie he hears 

That she will have that eligible thing : 

A house in Town, in the ensuing spring. 

At Mrs. Plimpton's exit, John came in, 

And next announced " The Reverend Mr. FlinnV 

*' You'll be in Eaker Street to morrow night ! 

*' A charming change ! Your Ladyship is right : 

*' There's nothing after all like Town, my Lady, 

** I'm dying lor the Opera already ! 

*' I must leave poor dear Granby in the lurch, 

* * And get some worthy man to serve my church ; 

** Town is my element, I never can be 

*' Appreciated in a place like Gianby. 

6 



—82- 

* ' I am not ratn-^far from it, but I seek 

*' Some chapei near the Squares, when once a week 

** I may, unbored by burials and marriages, 

*• Preach to a well dress'd crow'd who come in carriages. 

*' One's lost at Granby — positively lost ; ' . 

** Fm sick of the eternal tea and toast. 

** 'Two'nt do to say : "regret you cannot go ; " 

** They know you cannot be engag'd, they know 

" Where every body breakfasts, dines and sups, 

* ' And when at tea they fill their china cups, 

*' Look out for ev'ry creature they invite, 

*^ Deem a refusal vastly impolite. 

'* The Town boasts but one party in one night! " 

Now Lady Rose was very well aware 

The Reverend Mr. Flinn's incessant care 

AVas by these very persons to be petted , 

And when unasked, she knew how much lie fretted ! 

Their daily flatterer, though it was his rule 

Absent to turn them into ridicule I 

* Dear me ! you quite surprise me I " she exclaim'd— 

* The Reverend Mr. Flinn is always nam'd 

* At Granby with delight:! own I thought 

* You were as glad to seek, as to be sought ! " 

' Oh no, my Lady, I am sadly teazed, 

' And if at times I manage to seem pleased, 

' It is an amiable weakness, thus 

' To smile on those who inconvenience us. " 

' A moral maxim that," said Lady Rose ; 

' You practice what you preach, Sir, I suppose- 



'* But Mr. Flinn I really understood 

'* You meant to settle in the neighbourhood, 

" Settle! " exclaim'd the Reverend Mr.Flimi, 

' ' A charming country this to settle in ! 

** But Vm not one who in a contry Town 

** Could, as the vulgar phrase is, ^'settle down,'''''^ 

*' Of course your Ladyship alludes, I know, 

** To the rumour of my marriage with miss Snow.— 

** She's prettyish, and rich — but you must own 

*' She is deficient both in taste and ion, 

*' I must be less attentive— 'tis a sin, 

** To let her think she will be Mistress Flinn, '^ 

** How fortunate ! you may commence to day 

" Your system of reserve without delay ; 

*' See all the Snows, the Parents and your Love, 

" A perfect snow storm, driving to the Grove! " 

The Reverend Mr. Flinn seem'd rather flurried, 
Rose to depart— and then his words were hurried 
The Snows were usher'd in e'er he retreated, 
He could not leave the room, he soon was seated 
Next the Miss Snow whose hopes were to be chill'd, 
And by a slighted passion prematm-ely kill'd ! 
Unfortunate young man ! to thaw that snow. 
How he hath labour'd nobody can know ! 
And how that snow hath frozen by delay 
All his advances, nobody can say ! 
And now she seems much more inclined to chat 
Than usual ! He fidgets with his hat, 
Ashamed that Lady Rose the chat should sec-* 
Yet loth to lose ihe opportmiity. 



■U 



He fears to lose, yet is ashamed to win ! 
Oh ! most embarrass'd Reverend Mr. Flinia ! 

Pity the man who, rising once a year 

A little way above his proper sphere, 

Strives — (vain endeavour! ) to appear to be 

Indigenous to such society. 

Then , to appear recherche^ he disclaims 

All knowledge of the old familiar names; 

The man whose hand in fellowship he takes, 

A^'hose roof has sheltered him, whose bread he breaks ; 

The woman he has woo'd with all the strength 

Dissimulation boasts, who loves at length. 

Who mourns his absence, and will smiling stand 

To welcome his return with lip and hand ; 

These he disowns, or if he deems it right 

To say he knows them before ears polite. 

Insults them by acknowledgment so slight. 

Such is the Reverend Mr. Flinn, and now. 

Having forsworn his friends, he knows not how 

To act reserve before my lady Rose, 

Yet slily smile as usual on the Snows: 

Disastrous destiny of trifling fools, 

iWho wish to sitf yet tamper with two stools t 

The Snows prepare to go, and they begin 

To wonder at the Reverend Mr. Flinn ! 

** I fear you're poorly, Sir, youVe walk'd too far, 

** We'll take you back to Granby, if you are ; 

So says Mamma — says Miss : '* You know there '11 be 

** A vacant seat upon the box with me. 'i 



-85— 

*• Sick!" says old Snow *' Come with us, stay and dine, 
** And I will care you, Flinn, with old port wine !" 

The Gentlemanly man whom you prefer, 
'Will know you for a year, and call you *^Sir ;'^ 
The vulgar being whom you never seek, 
Will slap your back and "/^//w«" you in a week ! 

The Reverend Mr. Flinn though quite unused 
To saying *' «o / thank you , " twice refused ! 
Then looking with the corner of his eye 
At Lady Rose's face, he heav'd a sigh ; 
And glancing at the delicate miss Snow, 
He could not have the heart to utter *' No. " 
Soon from the window Lady Rose espied 
The Lovers on the dicky, side by side ! 

The carriage drove away, and e'er the bell 
Rings for the meal that most men love so well , 
Two dozen more across, the lawn have flitted, 
And (most unusual thing ) have been admitted ! 

But now the last is gone, the levee done. 
The Lady sits complacently alone, 
And murmurs to herself in accents sweet, 
** To morrow I shall dine in Baker Street ! '' 



END OF CANTO THIRD. 



•86- 



CANTO FOUIITH. 



The excellent Housekeeper, Mistress Magee, 

Is wild as weak woman can possibly be, 

She fumes and she frets, and examines, and mends, 

And she orders about her, and superintends ; 

Arranging and managing early and late. 

Now sorting the linen, now packing the plate, 

Now scolding the Butler for doing it wrong. 

Upbraiding the footman for lingering long. 

And speaking her mind (though a little afraid 

Of a saucy reply) to my Lady's own maid. 

And all confidentially seem to agree, 

That t)ie journey has^bother'd poor Mistress Magee, 

** They're going to Zww/zow," she says to herself. 

As she takes a large pickle jar down from a shelf, 

** To Limnon ! — I never know5 any good come 

* * Of people's deserting their comforts at home : 

*' To Lunnon ! / take^ it exceeding unkind 

*' They should leave me alone in the country behind : 

** Unless into matters my Lady looks deeper, 

*t When she sees the housekeeping — she'll miss the Housekeeper ! 

** You go with them« Jane— deary me ! I forget 

** That all the folks call you now Mistress Rosette ; 

** Humph— Mistress Rosette! how you used to complain, 

** As a housemaid, at my never calling you ** Jane ;" 

*' But how could I help it? nov/ don't take it ill, 

'* I can't forget Jenny, the drudge at the mill," 



-87- 

Cries Mistress Rosette : ** I despises your words, 

' * We all knows your temper would turn cream to curds, 

** I'd answer — but anger destroys the complexion : 

' * Your age and your Firmities is your protection ; 

^* You envies my going to Lunnon^ I see— 

** These trips are agreeable, Mistress Magee," 

'* Dont talk about trips, '' says the keeper of keys, 
*' Dont talk about trips, Ma'am, to me if you please; 
* * For your trips I suspect that you need not go far, 
** You've had plenty of trips in your time, Mistress R. 
'' Says mistress Rosette, and she doubles her fist; 
*' I advises you, Mistress Magee, to desist ; 
** To answer such obsequies only degrades 
** To a level with you. Madam — us Lady's maids." 

* ' Lady's maids ! " with a sneer says the elderly dame, 
** The Gentlemen's maids were a much better name." 

And dreading a most pugilistic response, 
The housekeeper quitted the chamber at once. 

Oh sad is the Housekeeper ordered to air 

The old family seat with no family there ! 

To open the windows, to let in the light 

Upon furniture only, and shut them at night ; 

To hear the wind whistling thro' the spring leaves, 

No man in the mansion, and dreaming of thieves ! 

No talk with my Lady, no orders to take, 

No dinners to manage, no pastry to make. 

No house maid to scold for not using a broom, 

No gossip and tea in the housekeeper's room, 

No quality company coming to stay, 

No little donation on going av/ay, 



TVo pleasant civilities : ** Happy to see 

'*. You are looking so charmingly, Mistress Magee. 

'* I hope I shall find you as blooming next year, 

*' Without you, I scarcely should know myself here. "- 

Oh ! nothing of this ! she must fold up once more 

The things that were very well folded before, 

Or trying to think herself busy, bestow 

!Nevv papers and brandy to jams on the go. 

The morn of departure, poor Mistress Magee 

Is ready at six with toast, coffee and tea ; 

The carriage is pack'd, and Sir Hampton, his Lady 

And Mary are seated wdthin it already, 

And Mistress Rosette, scorning weather and wind 

Is seated with John in the rumble behind : 

The wheels are in motion — and standing alone, 

Poor Mistress Magee's occupation is gone ! 

And fast flies the travelling carriage, so fast. 
That the Granby Grove boundaries quickly are past, 
And now to the Rectory lawn they are close. 
Poor Mary leans forward to gaze at the house ; 
Her eyes on one casement are fix'd, but so dim 
Is the grey light of morning, she cannot see him. 
But onward they go, and a turn in the road 
Soon veils from her view the poor curate's abode ; 
"W ith that — from her bosom all hope disappears. 
She leans back in the carriage, and bursts into tears. 
But one at the Rectory casement hath been. 
Looking forth as they pass'd, tho' by Mary unseen ; 
His night has been sleepless, ah ! who hath not kno>vn 
What it is in the darkness to stand a^! alone 



By the window, and eagerly watch for the least 

Ray of morning that colours the clouds in the east ! 

Yes, who has not gazed, when the daylight appeared 

For an early departure, expected, yet fear'd; 

Now wondering what can have caused a delay 

Now certain that something induced them to stay, 

Looking out at each noise, with so eager an eye, 

As if 'twould he pleasure to see them pass hy! 

Oh! who has not known what the weary one feels 

Who at length in reality hears the ^wift wheels, 

And traces, or rather helieves he can trace 

In the gloom of the carriage one upturning face, 

As if seeking for him, where he oft has been sought ; 

And then e'er quite sure of the glimpse he has caught, 

The wheels indistinctly are heard ! — they are past. — 

Can it be she is gone — could that look be the last ! 

He ought to have spoken ; why did he not stand 

To acknowledge that look with a wave of the hand ? 

She will think he was sleeping — how cold and remiss , 

To be able to sleep on a morning like this ! 

What would he not give, to behold her go by 

Once again — -though the vision as swiftly would fly I 

In the instant, she might have beheld on his cheek 

The sorrow which plainer than language can speak. 

She might have remember'd that agonised glance 

In the radiant assembly, the banquet, the dance; 

She might have remember'd that look, when the voice 

Of a lover more noble proclaims her his choice. 

And her lips might have murmur 'd : **No, constant Fll be, 

I will ne'er forget Him, He will ne'er forget me." 

END OF BOOK THE FIRST. 



—90- 



Sii^l)man Bump^. 



Anthony Dumps, the father of my hero (the subject 
matter of a story being always called the Hero, however 
little heroic he may personnally have been) married Dora 
Coffin, on St. Swithin's day in the first year of the last reign> 

Anthony was then comfortably oif, but through a com- 
bination of adverse circumstances he went rapidly down 
in the world, became a bankrupt, and being obliged to 
vacate his residence in St. Paul's Church Yard, he removed 
to No. 3, Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, 
where Mrs. Dumps was delivered of a son. 

The depressed pair agreed to christen their babe Simon, 
but the name was registered in the parish book with the 
first syllable spelt *'S — I — G — H— ; "—whether the 
trembling hand of the afflicted parent orthographically 
erred, or whether a bungling clerk caused the error, I know 
not ; but certain it is that the infant Dumps was regis- 
tered SiGHMON. 

Sighmon sighed away his infancy like other babes and 
sucklings, and when he grew to be a hobedy-hoy, there 
was a seriousness in his visage, and a much ado about 
nothing-ness in his eye, which were proclaimed by good 
natured people to be indications of deep thought and pro- 
fundity; while others less "flattering sweet," declared 
they indicated nought but want of comprehension, and 
the dulness of stupidity. 



As he grew older he grew graver; sad was his look, 
somhre the tone of his voice, and half an hour's conversa- 
tion with him was a very serious affair indeed. 

Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, was the 
scene of his infant sports. Since his failure, his father had 
earned his //pd/jhood, hy letting himself out as a mute or 
a mourner to a furnisher of funerals. 

^^Muie''^ and ** voluntary tvo^" were his stock in trade. 

Often did Mrs Dumps ink the seams of his small- 
clothes, and darken his elbows with a blacking brush, ere 
he sallied forth to follow borrowed plumes ; and when 
he returned from his public performance (oft rehearsed) 
Master Sighmon did innocently crumple his crapes, and 
sport with his weepers. 

His melancholy outgoings at length were rewarded by 
some pecuniary incomings. The demise of others secured 
a living for him, and after a few unusually propitious 
sickly seasons, he grimly smiled as he counted his gains : 
the mourner exulted, and in praise of his profession the 
mute became eloquent. 

Another event occurred : after burying so many people 
professionally, he at length buried Mrs. Dumps. That, of 
course, was by no means a matter of business. I have 
before remarked that she was descended from the Coffins, 
ghe was now gathered to her ancestors. ' , 

it was not surprising that Uumps had risen m his pro- 
fession : he was a perfect master of melancholy ceremo- 
nies, and, as a mule proclaimer of the mutability of human 
affairs, none could equal him. Never did the summer 
sunshine of nankeen lie hid beneath the shadows of his 
** inky cloak ; " never while his countenance betokened 
'* the winter of discontent," was he known to simper-^ 
even in his sleeve ! 



-92- 

Dumps had long been proud of gentility of appearance, a 
suit of black had been his working day costume, nothing 
therefore could be more easy than for Dumps to turn 
gentleman. He did so ; took a villa at Gravesend, chose 
for his own sitting room a chamber that looked against a 
dead wall, and whilst he was lying in state upon the squabs 
of his sofa, . he thought seriously of the education of his 
son, and resolved that he should be instantly taught the 
dead languages. 

Sighmon was superstitious ; though his temper and dis-r 
position had neither been spirited nor sprightly^ his dreams 
^nd his fears had been both ; from the windows of Bury- 
ing Ground Buildings he had daily witnessed grave proceed- 
ings ; in the dusk of the evening he had often been startled 
by groans and moans, and sometimes he had thought that 
he beheld the new comers in the grounds beneath his 
chamber (by no means pleasure grounds), frisking in the 
congenial paleness of the moonlight. 

He felt convinced that he had witnessed unearthly sports, 
sports on the turf, among beings who ought by rights to 
have been under it ! 

All this had made an impression on him, and Sighmon 
Dumps was decidedly a young man of a serious turn of 
mind. The metropolis had few attractions for him, he 
loved to linger near the Monument ; and if ever he thought 
of a continental excursion, the Catacombs and Pere la Chaise 
.were his seducers. 

* 'tes father died, his old employer furnished him with a 
funeral ; the mute was silenced, and the mourner was 
mourned. 

Sighmon Dumps became more serious than ever, he had 
a decided nervous malady, an abhorrence of society, and 



-93- 

a sensitive shrinking when he felt that any body was look- 
ing at him. He had heard of the invisible girl ; he wouM 
have given worlds to have been an invisible young gentle- 
man, and to have glided in and out of rooms, unheeded 
and unseen, like a draft through a keyhole. This, how- 
ever, was not to be his lot ; like a man cursed with creak- 
ing shoes, stepping lightly and tiptoeing availed not ; a 
creak always betrayed him when he was most anxious to 
creep into a corner. 

At his father's death he found himself possessed of a 
competency and a villa ; but he was unhappy, he was known 
in the neighbourhood, people called on him, and he was 
expected to call on them, and these calls and recalls bored 
him. He never, in his life, could abide looking any one 
straight in the face ; a pair of human eyes meeting his own 
was actually painful to him. It was not to be endured. 
He sold his villa, and determined to go to some place 
where being a total stranger he might pass unnoticed and 
unknown, attracting no attention, no remarks. 

He went to Brighton, consulted an eminent physician 
and was recommended sea bathing and horse exercise. 
The son of the weeper very naturally thought he had 
already **too much of water;" he however hired a nag, 
took a small lodging, and as nobody spoke to him, nor 
seemed to care about him, he grew better and felt sedately 
happy. This blest reclusion, "the world forgetting, by 
the world forgot, " was not the predestined fate of 
Sighmon : odd circumstances always brought him into 
notice. 

The horse he hired was one unaccustomed to the sea, 
it was a cockney quadruped , and started , and reared, 
when Sighmon rode upon the sands, endeavouring to 



-94- 

wheedle him into a relish for wetting his feet, and facing 
the big waves of Ocean. Sighmon was a swimmer, and 
used to ride on his high trotting horse to a little snug recess 
in the cliff near Rottingdean, where he was accustomed 
to tie him to a post, and then, having deliberately un- 
dressed himself, he would plunge into the water, and splash 
about, and dive, and swim for a quarter of an hour. One 
day, one luckless day, just as he had thrown off his last 
garment, it occurred to him that he might at once over- 
come his horse's antipathy to the waters by mounting him 
and urging him gradually into the advancing tide : he did 
so, and sat erect upon the saddle like an equestrian Adam. 
The horse plunged, the waters splashed around him, and 
upon him ; but his clothes were safely piled upon a rock, 
and he heeded not the sprinkling. Suddenly one billow 
more turbulent than the rest burst upon the shingles, the 
horse started, became at length utterly . unmanageable, 
and dashed off at full gallop towards Brighton with 
Sighmon on his back ! Imagine the misery of his situa- 
tion : the shy, the modest Sighmon hastening involun- 
tarily towards the public promenade in a state of nudity! 
In vain he pulled at the bridle, swifter and swifter rushed 
on the infuriated steed ; he flew along the crowded cliff, he 
passed the Steyne thronged with fashionables listening to 
the band of a Regiment of Hussars. The music stopp'd, 
the Ladies fainted, the children screamed, the gentlemen 
gazed in amazement ! Still on — on — on went Sighmon 
until he arrived at the door of his lodgings, when the 
horse stopp'd so suddenly that the bare and buff co- 
loured rider flew head over heels, and pitched in a 
sitting posture on the pavement. He was carried to his 
apartment more dead than alive, and during the evening 



crowds assembled round the house, and servants in livery 
were sent to enquire after the poor lunatic gentleman. 
Life became a burthen to him ; he was a marked man ; 
he^ whose only wish was to pass unnoticed, unheard, 
unseen ; he^ who of all the creeping things on the earth, 
pitied the glowworm most, because the spark in its tail 
attracted observation ! He gave up his lodgings and his 
steed, and went "in his angry mood to Tewksbury." 

I ought ere this to have described my hero. He was 
rather embonpoint, but fat was not with him, as it some- 
times is, twin brother to fun ; his fat was weighty, he was 
inclined to blubber. He wore a wig, and carried in his 
countenance an expression indicative of the seriousness of 
his turn of mind. 

He alighted from the coach at the principal inn at Tewks- 
bury; the landlady met him m the hall, started, smiled, 
and escorted him into a room with much civility. He took 
her aside, and briefly explained that retirement, quiet, and 
a back room to himself, were the accommodations he sought* 

** 1 understand you, sir," replied the landlady, with a 
knowing wink, " a little quiet will be agreeable by wav 
of change ; I hope you'll find every thing here to your 
liking." She then curtseyed and withdrew. 

" Frank," said the hostess to the head waiter, *' who do 
you think weVe got in the blue parlour? you'll never 
guess ! I knew him the minute I clapped eyes on him , 
dressed just as I saw him at the Haymaiket Theatre, the 
only night I ever was at a London stage play. The grey 
coat, and the striped trowsers, and the hessian boots over 
them, and the straw hat out of all shape, and the gingham 
umbrella"! " 

' ' Who is he, ma'am ? " said Frank. 



*' Why the great comedy actor, Mr. LisloD," replied 
the landlady, "come down for a holiday; he wants to he 
quiet, so we must not hlab, or the whole town will he 
after him." 

This brief dialogue will account for much disquietude 
which subsequently befel our ill fated Dumps. People 
met him, he could not imagine why, with a broad grin on 
their features. As they passed, they whispered to each 
other, and the words ** inimitable, '' "• clever creature, " 
*' irresistibly comic," evidently applied to himself, reached 
his ears. 

Dumps looked more serious than ever ; but the greater 
his gravity, the more the people smiled, and one young 
lady actually laughed in his face as she said aloud : *'Oh, 
that mock heroic tragedy look is so like him !" 

Sighmon sighed for the seclusion of number three, Bury- 
ing-ground Buildings, Paddington Road. 

One morning his landlady announced, with a broader 
grin than usual, that a gentleman desired to speak with 
him ; he grumbled, but submitted, and the gentleman was 
announced. 

** My name, sir, is Opie," said the stranger; "I am 
quite delighted to see you here. You intend gratifying 
the good people of Tewksbury of course ?" 

*^ Gratifying! what can you mean?" 

*' If your name is announced, there'll not be a box to be 
had. " 

** I always look after my own boxes, I can tell you," 
replied Dumps. 

*' By all means, you will come out here of course ?" 

** Come out? to be sure, I shan't stay within doors 
always. ", 



-97— 

* ' What do you mean to come out in ?" 

'' Why.... what I've got on will do very well." 

*' Oh, that's so like you," said Opie, shaking his sides 
with laughter, " you really are inimitable 1 — W^ hat cha- 
racter do you select here ?" 

*' Charactei 1" said Dumps, "the Stranger." 

*' The Stranger! you /" 

*' Yes, J." 

* ' And you really mean to come out here as the Stranger T'l 
said Opie. 
," Why, yes to be sure, — I'm but just come/" 

" Then I shall put up your name in large letters immedia- 
tely, vve will open this evening ; and as to terms, you shall 
have half the receipts of the hq/ase." 

Off ran Mr. Opie, vy]^' vvas no less a personage than 
the manager of the,theatre, leaving Dumps fully persuaded 
that he had been, closeted with a lunatic. 

Shortly aft^i vvards he saw a man very busy pasting bills 
agamst a \X'all opposite his window, and so large were 
the letter^ that he easily deciphered : " The celebrated 
Mr. Linton in tragedy. This evening The Stranger, 
the pajt of The Stranger by Mr. Liston." 

•^Vimps had never seen the inimitable Liston, indeed 
coniiedy was quite out of his way. But now that the star 
^^%s to shine forth in tragedy, the announcement was 
<^<^ngenial to the serious turn of his mind, and he resolved 
*b go. 

He eat an early dinner, went betimes to the theatre, 

iand established himself in a snug corner of the stage box. 

) The house filled, the hour of commencement arrived, the 

•t fiddlers paused and looked towards the curtain, but hear- 

f ing no signal they fiddled another strain. The audience 

7 " 



I 



\ 



Lccame impa.ien, ; they hissed, they hoo.ed, and they called 
fo.- .he manager. Another pause, another yell of diLp.o- 
haljon and the manager, pale and trembling, appeared and 
walked hat m hand to the front of the stage. To Dumps^s 
great surprise it was the very man who Visited him in the 
morning. Mr. Opie cleared his throat, bowed repeat- 
edly moved his lips, but ,vas inaudible amid the sh^ut 
of Hear bm. At length silence was obtained, and he 
^l^ke as follows : 

'* Ladies and Gentlemen, 
- I appK, j,,f^„^ y^^ to entreat your kind and consi- 
derate forbeaic.,^^. t i ^ / " i^UliM 

the absence of 1,:.^;^!'"''^'"""''^°^'"'' 

moment, one thought sf" ' *""'' '"*'*'= anguish ' of the 

. • 1 1 , r^A^^^^ *^^» the consciousness of 

having done my duty. (/^/?/.. ^ t i. 

with your deservedly favourite pL ;^ ^^^ ^"^ interview 

and every necessary arrangement was ornmg, 

I have sent to his hotel, and he is hot to "^^en us. 

approbation.^ I have been infonned that i ' ^ ^^'' 

and left the house, saying that he was going to^^ early, 

•what accident can have prevented has arrival I . ^^ re ; 



miable to...." ,: ^ ""<=^'y 

Mr. Opie now happened to glance towards th 
box, surprise ! doubt ! anger ! certainty ! were the al^ ^^ 
expressions of his pale face and widely opened eyes"^ ^ 
at length pointing to Dumps he exclaimed — ^ 

** Ladies and gentlemen, it is my painful duty to inl 
you that Mr. Liston is now before you, there he sits al 
back of the stage box, and I trust I may be permitted to 
upon him for an explanation of his very singular conduc^ 
Every eye turned towards Dumps, every voice was u\ 
lifted against himj the man who could not endure th 



-99- 
scrutiny of one pair of eyes, now beheld a house full of 
them giarmg at him with angry indignation. His head be- 
came confused, he had a slight consciousness of being el- 
bowed through the lobby, of a riot in the crowded street, 
and of being protected by the civil authorities against the 
uncivil attacks of the populace. He was conveyed to bed, 
and awoke the next morning with a very considerable ac- 
cession of nervous malady. 

He soon heard that the whole town vowed vengeance 
against the infamous and unprincipled impostor who had so 
impudently played off a practical joke on the public, and at 
dead of night did he escape from the town of Tewksbury, 
in a return mourning coach, with wliich he was accom- 
modated by his tender hearted landlady. 

Our persecuted hero next occupied private apartments at 
a boarding-house at Malvern. Pi ivacy was refreshing, but 
alas ! its duration was doomed to be short. A young officer 
who had witnessed the embarrassment of "the stranger" 
at Tewksbury, recognised the sufferer at Malvern, and 
knowing his nervous antipathy to being noticed, he wick- 
edly resolved to make him the lion of the place. 

He dined at the public table, spoke of the gentleman who 
occupied the private apartments, wondered that no one ap- 
peared to be aware who ISe was, and then in confidence in- 
formed the assembled party that the recluse was the cele- 
brated author of the '* pleasures of memory. 

Dumps again found himself an object of universal curio- 
sity, every body became officiously attentive to him, he 
was waylaid in his walks, and intentionally intruded upon 
hy accident in his private apartments; a travelling artist 
requested to be permitted to take his portrait for the ex- 
hibition, a lady requested him to peruse her manuscr^t 



— 100 — 

romance and to give his unbiassed opinion, and the master 
of the boarding-house waited upon him by desire of Jiis 
guests, to request that he would honour the public table 
with his company. Several ladies solicited his autograph 
for their albums, and several gentlemen called a meeting 
of the inhabitants, and resolved to give him a public dinner; 
a craniologist requested to be permitted to take a cast of 
his head, and as a climax to his misery, when he was sii- 
lingih his bed-chamber thinking himself at least secure for 
the present, tlie door being bolted, he looked towards the 
Malvern Hills which lise abruptly immediately at the back 
of the boarding-house, and there he discovered a party of 
ladies eagerly gazing at him with long telescopes through 
ihe open windows ! 

He left Malvern the next morning, and went to a seclud- 
ed village on the Welsh coast, not far from Swansea. 

The events of the last few weeks had rendered poor 
Sighmon Dumps more sensitively nervous than ever. His 
seclusion became perpetual, his blind was always down, 
and he took his solitary walks in the dusk of the evening. 
He had been told that sea sickness was sometimes beneficial 
in cases resembling his own ; he, therefore, bargained with 
some boatmen who engaged to take him out into the 
channel, on a little experimental medicinal trip. At a 
very early hour in the morning he went down to the beach, 
and prepared to embark. He had observed two persons 
>vho appeared to be watching him, he felt certain they were 
dogging him, and just as he was stepping into the boat they 
seized him, saying: "Sir, we know you to be the great defaul- 
ter whohas been so long concealed on this coast; we know 
you are trying to escape to America, but you must come 
with us/' 



■ — lOI 

Sighmon's heart was broken. He felt it would be use- 
less to endeavour to explain or to expostulate ; he spoke 
not, but was passively hurried to a carriage in which he 
was borne to the metropolis as fast as four horses could 
carry him, without rest or refreshment. Of course, after 
a minute examination, he was declared innocent, and was 
released; but justice smiled too late, the bloom of Sigh- 
mon's happiness had been prematurely nipped. 

He called in the aid of the first medical advice, grew a 
liltle better; and when the doctor left him he prescribed 
a medicine which he said he had no doubt would restore 
the patient to health. The medicine came, the bottle was 
shaken, the contents taken — Sighmon died ! 

It was afterwards discovered that a mistake had occasion^ 
ed his premature departure : a healing liquid had beea 
prescribed for him, but the careless dispenser of the medi- 
cine had dispensed with caution on the occasion, and 
Dumps died of a severe oxalic acidity of the stomach ! By 
his own desire he was interred in the churchyard opposite 
to Burying-ground Buildings, Paddiagton Road. 

But even there he could not rest ! The next morning it was 
discovered that the body of Sighmon Dumps had been 
stolen by resurrection men! 

Oh ! that some true poet would glean from this narrative 
materials for liis next offering to the Tragic muse ! Dumps 
would indeed be a Hero ! But I am aware that few Poets 
could do him justice, and also that even were justice done 
him, few persons possess nerves sufficiently strong lo 
endure the representation of a Tragedy so deep. 



102 



MY GKEAT-GRANDMOTHER'S 
HARPSICHORD. 

** Most musical — most melancholy.** 



I HAD drained the last drop of my bottle of claret, and 
sat musing in solitude before the fire. ** Yes," thought I, 
**yes, my daughters are come to years of education, so I 
must get a musical instructor and a grand piano." 

Girls must be accomplished, and four or five hours a 
day must be devoted to music. It is absolutely necessary 
that they should be taught the use of the keys — not the keys 
that their grandmother (excellent woman) handled : no — 
they were suspended in a bunch at her side. 

For three generations our family has been decidedly un- 
musical; I speak it with shame and deep humiliation, but 
it is the truth, and I will be brave enough to own it — for 
three generations we have possessed (critically speaking) 
neither voices, ears, nor souls ! 

My grandmother, the lady with the bunch before men- 
tioned, was the pink of notability. She knew how to pre- 
serve all the fruits of the earth, how to pickle all the vege- 
tables of the garden : in a culinary point of view, she was 
decidedly a genius, but of music she knew nothing. To her 
one tune was just like any other, and she denominated every 
tune a noise ! She knew nothing of the gamuts every thing 



of tke gammon ; her bars were the bars of the kitchen 
grate, her accompaniments were garnishes, her catches 
were snacks, and her rounds were rounds of beef. 

Had she lived in these days, she would have been a me- 
lancholy and degraded outcast of society ; but, in the times 
of female drudgery and degradation, she was esteemed an 
excellent housewife, and a proper motherly woman. 

Her daughter (my mother), the second person singularly 
tuneless in the three generations I have alluded to, was of 
an equestrian turn. She delighted to ride upon the backs 
of high trotting horses; the bars her talents surmounted 
were the bars of gates that possessed ^t>e; in a fox chase 
she would be the running accompaniment of ihe most dar- 
ing squire in the country. She knew of no llourishes save 
those of her whip; and cared not for "dying, dying falls," 
except when some luckless companion was precipitated 
over a hedge on the crown of his head. She had neither 
time nor inclination for home pursuits ; she almost lived on 
horseback ; her music was the huntsman's horn ; and she 
was actually in her habit and her hat when I, rather pre- 
maturely and unexpectedly, came into the world ! Forlur 
nately, neither she nor I was the worse for my extempo- 
raneous debut ; I was swaddled, and papped, and grueiled 
with success, and became in due time a very proper young 
gentleman. 

I inherited the unhappy failing of my mother and my 
grandmother : music, tliat * 'softens rocks and bends the 
knotted oak," softened not and bent not me. 

For three generations, therefore, have we been an inhar- 
monious race. But tliere is one point in our favour— a 
great point — a redeeming one, in the shape of my great- 
grandmother. She was a woman of lasli', uid played upon 
the harpsichord. 



— 104— 

*' By the by," thought I, '* why should I purchase a 
grand piano-forte, an article of no small cost, when my 
great-grandmother's harpsichord, with a double row of 
keys, stands up stairs in the lumber-room, and will no 
doubt answer every purpose ?" 

How well I remember my great-grandmother! She was 
an old lady, and I a small boy, at the period of my remi- 
niscence ; yet in my mind's eye, I behold her now. She 
was tall, she was straight, as the poplar tree ; her waist 
was a prodigy for length and diminutiveness ; and the bro-' 
caded silk of her gown stood out around her, as if afraid 
to encroach by pressing too closely upon her graceful limbs. 
On her head rose an unparalleled structure of pure white 
gauze or lace, and on her forehead her powdered hair w^as 
most profusely frizzed. Her gowns were the most inde- 
pendent garments imaginable ; for, if the mistress chanced 
lo step out of them, they still stood erect in the innate sta'- 
Lility of their structure. 

She had no idea of undress and full dress, as modern 
ladies have, changing from a seven shilling muslin of a 
morning, to a cheap beggarly silk or crape at night. The 
mistress could then never be mistaken for the maid, nor 
the maid for the mistress. She was always responsibly 
attired : her small feet, in their high-heeled shoes, regally 
reposed under her glossy petticoat, and her snowy elbows 
modestly peeped from the sheltering canopy of her pure 
lace ruffles. 

When she wished to appear in full dress, she wore im*- 
mense diamond earings, and upon her fmgers she placed 
several brilliant hoop-rings. These splendid auxiliaries 
were put on in a moment; and let her be surprised by vi-r 
sitors at any hour, she came forUi with glillcring ears and 



— io5— 

fingers, curtsied down to the very ground, and looked as 
if equipped to grace a court. 

She was a relic of the oldest school ; she emulated the 
grandeur of baronial state ; and in her lodgings in a water- 
ing place, instead of vulgarly rising to ring the bell when 
she wanted a domestic, she sat patiently and proudly on 
her sofa, and in a feeble, still, small voice, cried, " Who 
waits ? " till by some fortunate chance her maid heard, and 
attended to the call. 

Her harpsichord was her delight; it was a two-decker, 
I know nothing of music, but I know it had two rows of 
keys ; ond on these she played alternately, waving to and 
fro her stately head, and often looking round to me for 
applause. 

She played the popular songs of the day. The popular 
songs — alas! what were they? They are gone, they are 
forgotten, like the smiles and the roses of the girls who 
sang them ; like the hopes and the affections of the youths 
who listened to them. The triumphs of the singers of 
those days, and the popularity of the songs, where are 
they? 'Tis a lesson for a modern chansonnier. 

I used to dine now and then with my great-grandmother, 
and by way of amusing me, she would sit down and play 
me a minuet, or some endless sonata ; her high-heeled shoe 
pressed the pedals and she rambled over the double-decks 
of keys with iofmite self-possession. She thought me, I 
believe, a very dull boy, for I never could contrive to seem 
pleased with her playing. But when she sent me home, 
W she generally slipped a little golden coin into my hand, and 
I left her gaily and contentedly, for my play-iiuic was at 
band. But to return to my reverie. 

"Why," thought I, "should 1 buy a piano, when I al- 



— io6— 

ready possess an iiistrumenl which I have frequently heard 
my great-grandmother say was unrivalled?" 

I Went up stairs to a dark, dusty lumber-room, and there 
lay the Iwo-decker, with a broken leg and an unsound 
^ sounding-board. I had it carefully conveyed below, and 
it creaked, and groaned, and threatened to fall to pieces at 
every step. A carpenter mended the w ounded limb ; and 
I then sent for the learned professor, who was in future to 
be my daughter's music-master, and with pride exhibited 
to him the instrument which had been declared by my great- 
grandmother ( a musical paragon in her day ) to be the 
sweetest and the best she ever heard. The professor smiled. 
Ajk * * It is as an antiquarian you value it, I presume ?" said he. 

*' How so, sir?" said I. 

** I mean, you are not seriously pronouncing a favourable 
judgment upon it as a musical instrument," he replied. 

Thought I, he knows I am not musical, and he is sneer- 
ing at me. 

*' Sir," said I, **have the goodness to put that invaluable 
instrument into perfect tune, and commence instructing 
my daughters." 

The professor actually spun round upon my music-stool, 
and after staring at me incredulously for a moment, he 
burst into a fit of laughter. I only wished my great- 
grand-mother had been present. 

*' I beg your pardon, sir," at length said the professor, 
"but the instrument is not.,,.1 must be candid — it is only 
fit for " 

*' Fit for what, sir?" said I. 

*' For firewood," replied the professor." 

He was right : and to prove that he was so, he vigorously 
thumped the two rows of keys. The appeal >vas unan- 



swerable. I stopped my cars, and then stopped his pro- 
ceedings. The professor was immediately commissioned 
to choose for me a grand piano-forte, with all the new 
patents, the extra-octaves, the additionnal keys, the super- 
numerary pedals, and every other '* invention of the 
enemy" to silence, tranquillity and repose. 

The professor left me, and 1 then gazed upon the once 
dearly prized and carefully preserved instrument. What 
would my great-grandmother say, thought I, could she 
know that thou art to be chopped up into fuel to warm the 
frigid fingers of her great-great-grand-daughters. Her hus- 
band bought the instrument for her in the first year of their 
marriage ; it was meant as a surprise, and was placed in her 
sitting room very early on the morning of her birthday, that 
she might unexpectedly find it there when she came down 
to breakfast. This happened long before I was born ; but 
the old lady in her widowhood told me of it with tears in 
her eyes ; and, without being told, I can imagine the delight 
of the young bride on receiving the gift. 

How often has her husband leant over her when she 
touched those /20(v discoloured keys! How often has she 
looked laughingly up in his face, playing some lively air, 
which she knew he loved, because they had danced toge- 
ther to its melody ! 

I am no musician, and I have no love for old harpsi- 
chords, nor for new grand pianos ; but I cannot bear to see 
the tokens hallowed by the best and purest aiFections of 0/25 
generation, tossed about with contempt and turned into 
ridicule by another. It is thus with my great-grandmo- 
ther's portrait. There it hangs ; a shepherdess's hat at the 
back of her head, a dove on her right forefinger, and a half- 
blown cabbage-rose in her left hand. Every body who 



•-^io8-- 

looks at it now, laughs at the outre dress, or the stilt atti- 
tude, or the antiquated expression. Those for whom we 
have our portraits painted, should they happen to outlive 
us, ought to make a point of burning us in effigy before they 
die, or of carrying our canvas representatives with them to 
the grave. 

AVhen my relative sat for that portrait, nobody knows 
what pains she took about her looks and the arrangement of 
her dress; and now it is undeniable that the picture is a 
quiz. — When the first faggot of her dilapidated harpsichord 
crackles on the hearth, it would be charitable to throw the 
portrait into the blaze. 

Mutual affections and countless associations endear such 
memorials to our cotemporaries, and to those who imme- 
diately survive us ; but when those friends have followed 
us on the dark path from which there is no return, our 
portraits become the mere records of bygone fashions, and 
the features that are clothed in them are a marvel and a 
mockery. 

The best of all possible grand piano-fortes has been se- 
lected , and the profrssor has commenced his instructions. 
Morning, noon, and night, my daughters are practising; 
and when practise has at length rendered them perfect mis- 
tresses of the instrument, it is to behopedthey will marrymen 
who have souls^ and leave me (unmusical as I am) a quiet 
house. 

A time will no doubt arrive, w hen *the novelties of the 
day will, in their turn, become obsolete ; and my daughter's 
great-grandchildren will perhaps make faggots of the grand 
piano, as we have most undutifully made light of my great- 
grandmother's harpsichord. 



— log— 
KINGS, QUEENS, AND KNAVES. 



The visits of illustrious personages to this country have 
of late been so frequent, that it is possible many of my 
readers may be in ignorance of the Royal \isit which, in 
the following pages, I shall feebly attempt to commemo- 
rate : I mean the visit of the Court Cards. 

To the historian I leave the task of explaining whether 
political consideration S) court intrigues, the influence of 
ministers, or a laudable desire of inspecting our improve- 
ments in agriculture, manufactures, and machinery, induced 
the four sovereigns to meet in our island. It is not for me 
to investigate whether they w^ere actuated by a desire of 
promoting the welfare of their subjects, or of gratifying 
their own individual curiosity ; whether they set forth of 
their own private will and pleasure, or for reasons of stale. 
I state no reasons — They came :— and as with peculiar 
urbanity they exhibited themselves in public places, and 
accepted the invitations of the leading personages in high 
life; as they condescended to mingle with the multitude, 
and to become the lions of assemblies, I am enabled (partly 
from observation, and partly through the odd trick of one 
of their suite, who permitted me to cast my eye over their 
journals) to offer the reading public some interesting par- 
ticulars respecting their sejour in the British dominions. 
I beg explicitly to state that my knowledge has been obtain- 
ed through no unhandsome shuffle of my own. 

The matter of fact narrative on which I am now engaged, 
may possibly have somewhat the effect of a novel : re- 
member therefore the dignity of the volume ; my characters 



10- 



will hereafter become the properly of the historian. I 
merely trace the footsteps of the monarchs in carpeted 
saloons ; he must portray them in the palace and on the 
throne. On the day of their landmg, the town of Dover 
was in a state of general excitement ; bells were ringing, 
colours flying, artillery saluting ; and the loyal inhabitants 
crowded forth to peep at the illustrious potentates. Often 
and often, even from our earliest years, have we heard of 
the fame of these kings and queens. Their pictures have 
been familiar to every eye ; dealers transmitted them into 
every hand; their colourless extraordinary faces, their 
shapeless robes of every tint in the rainbow, and their 
sky-blue wigs, are as well known to every Englishman, 
as the head of his own revered monarch on a two and six- 
penny piece. Whenever there is any thing to be seen, an 
Englishman must go and see it ; and, in the eager warmth 
of excited spirits, he will run after any vehicle, no matter 
whether caravan or carriage ; no matter whence it comes 
or whither it goes ; no matter whether its contents be a 
kanguroo or a cannibal chief, a giraffe or a Princess Rusty- 
Fusty. He hears of an arrival from foreign parts, that is 
sufficient; a crowd is collected, and the '^interesting stran- 
ger" is cheered with enthusiasm, and speeds from town to 
town, graced with all the honours of extemporaneous po- 
pularity. 

Whilst the inhabitants of Dover shouted round their carri- 
ages, they condescendingly acknowledged the greetings 
they received, and proceeded on their journey towards the 
metropolis. The London season was at its zenith; the 
sunshine, the flowers, and the green leaves of a beautiful 
June, had driven all the fashionable world from their country 
seals, to spend their mornings amid the Macadamized dust 
of the slrcet3, and their midnights ia hot rooms. 



— 1 1 1^— 

The Earl and Countess of Shropshire, and the two La- 
dies Drake, weary of the vulgar fragrance of newnmowii 
hay, sick of the sight of lilac and laburnum blossoms, and 
bored with the eternal rurality of hill and dale, wood and 
water, were just established in a noble town residence in 
Park Lane. The Earl of Shropshire was appointed Lord 
in waiting to the illustrious strangers, to be their constant 
attendant, and arrange '* the order of their going" to public 
places. It was well that the earl felt flattered by this ap- 
pointment; it was, in reality, any thing but compliment- 
ary. Those in power were well avare that when a maa 
of intellect was wanted to fill any responsible situation, 
they must not look to the Earl of Shropshire: when cabinets 
were forming, or places giving away, he was always pas- 
sed over; and was indeed so accustomed to be overlooked, 
that when he foundhimself chosen master of the ceremonies, 
and court showman pro tempore, he became even more 
erect than usual, and pointed his toe in honour of his official 
situation. 

All my readers have doubtless in their possesion fuU 
length portraits of their respective majesties of Hearts and 
Diamonds. I am, therefore, spared all minute descrip- 
tive detail, as every one may easily imagine that they see 
them at the windows of a mansion in St. James's Square, 
in full costume, bowing and curtesying to the assembled 
cockneys. 

The King of Hearts and the King of Diamonds have but 
too often been at variance with each other; and where 
the former was most powerful, the latter kept aloof; nay, 
was almost unknown : but at the period of winch I am 
writing, a reconciliation, a temporary one perhaps, .had 
been efiected, and the two monarchs appeared togoihey 



— 112-- 

on the most intiihlate terms. How blessed was [such a 
union ! An unrestricted association with the Diamonds 
rendered it all sunshine with the Hearts ; whilst the 
ivarmth of the Hearts added new lustre to the Diamonds, 
and made them doubly dear ! It was a gratifying sight to 
behold the noble family of Shropshire attending the 
strangers in open carriages through the principal streets 
of London, and displaying the lions to the best advantage. 

For a time the two pair of monarchs were delighted with 
all they saw, and truly there is much in the outside show 
of the metropolis calculated to gratify Hearts, and to give 
even Diamonds an additional sparkle. 

What beautiful women!" said:the Queen of Hearts, as 
they passed through the Park; '* so smiling and happy too! 
iWho is that fair young girl in the green chariot?" 

** It is Lady Arnott," replied the earl. 

*' What a lovely laughing face! Is she married?'* 

'* She has been married many years." 

** Has she? Oh, delightful! See with what animation she 
leans from the carriage window to address her husband, 
she even fondles his horse!" 

Her husband! where?" 

On the grey horse, riding by her side. " 

Your majesty is mistaken; Lady Arnott eloped from her 
husband with that person, and deserted her children." 

* ' Deserted her husband and her children! yet she laughs 
and looks happy!" 

The Queen of Hearts was puzzled. 

*' After all," said the countess in her usual depreciating 
drawl, ** her smile is unnatural, and her colour carmine." 

** But is the lady mad?" said the queen. 

•* Mad, madam! No.'l 



-ii3- 

** Why did she run away from her husband ?" 

*' She was unhappy with him." 

** Unhappy! and did she expect to be happier when 
branded with infamy, shunned by society, separated from 
her children ? Was all this likely to render her happy ? 
How strange !" 

Such conduct was unknown in the empire of Hearts. 

*' Whose is that very splendid equipage ?" said the King 
of Diamonds ; for at this moment the carriages of the two 
sovereigns became accidentally abreast^ and a general con- 
versation became practicable, 

** Mr. Simpson Sharkers," replied the lord in waiting. 

* * What superb horses ! and the appointements altogether 
so magnificent! He is of course one of your most wealthy 
commoners ?" 

" Oh dear, no ! he has no particular income, I believe ; 
he lives by his wits, and has often been at his wits' end ; 
he vanishes occasionally, and then it is found that he leaves 
no eftects ; except, indeed, the effects of his extravagance, 
the smash of a tradesman or two ; but he generally comes 
out as good as new, as if nothing had happened." 

*' But surely that equipage is of value ?" 

' ' Yes ; but were a creditor to attempt to seize it, he would 
find that it is nominally the coachman's." 

** What strange practices!" said the queen; ''yet trade 
seems in a flourishing condition, shopkeepers disinterestedly 
selling their articles ' considerably under prime cost.' " 

** That is a flourish, I admit ; but if fashionable people 
cannot, or will not pay for what they buy, goods (if not 
credit) must be gioen?'' 

The attention of the Queen of Hearts was now attracted 

8 



-n4- 

Ly a carriage full of ladies, who wore white and silver fa- 
vours ; their servants also sported white ribhands, 

" Is not that your symbol of a wedding?" 

* * Yes, that is Lady Wilton ; she has this day married 
her beautiful daughter to a million/' 

'* To how many?" 

*' A million, your majesty." 

** Does your law allow plurality of husbands ?" 

*' To a million of money, I mean." 

The King of Diamonds looked pleased, 

** But," said the King of Hearts, "youhave not mention- 
ed the young bridegroom ; is he of age ?" 

*^ He is sixty-five, the lady seventeen*, the old man was 
a confirmed old bachelor, going about from watering-place 
to watering-place with his nephew, to whom he meant to 
leave his money, but the Wiltons met him at Bath, and 
the mother and the daughter followed him and flattered 
him, till they made him believe that he was in love, and 
that his passion was returned. He made first an ofter, and 
then a settlement ; was accepted with delight ; and the happy 
pair are now gone to Brighton for the honeymoon." 

** More madness!" cried the queen; **what could be 
their object?" 

'* An establishment." 

** Mere board and lodging for life 1" said the queen ; 
*^ and what becomes of the nephew ?" 

'* He, poor youth, is going to be married to a' wealthy 
widow of forty-five." 

The like was never heard of in the empire of Hearts. 

Day after day, upon the table of the Earl of Shropshire^ 
appeared the visiting card of Mr. Silverton Candy. 

lie was a gentleman of most obsequious manners and 



sotto voce conversa^ion, whose life was spent in an un- 
wearied struggle to elbow himself into the society of no- 
bility. 

His own family was highly respectable, and he was dist- 
antly connected with some families of rank. Of such right 
honourable connexions he perpetually made honourable 
mention, and he innocently amused himself by tracing his 
pedigree, and putting on paper the intermarriages of the 
Silvertons and the Candys, from the most remote and obs- 
cure antiquity down to the time present ; and these interest- 
ing documents were always at the command of any ac- 
quaintance who was good natured enough to pretend to 
desire a perusal. 

At watering-places Mr. Silverton Candy was a great 
man ; ay, a greater man than the master of the ceremonies. 
When a noble family arrived, he instantly became acquaint- 
ed with them, no one knew how : he always contrived to 
Lave met my lord's cousin or my lady's aunt last season in 
town ; had always accidentally happened to have received 
a long letter that very morning from the dowager duchess 
of something or other, who mentioned that he would pro- 
bably have the good fortune to meet her grace's friend's, his 
lordship and her ladyship. When once the introduction 
was gained, his indefatigable attentions and daily la- 
bours fully entitled him to the laurels of an apparent inti- 
macy with the great people. He made his appearance at 
any given hour> he was competent to give every kind of 
local information ; he would sit up for any length of time 
in a close carriage with her ladyship, or dawdle away the 
day seeing trumpery sights he had seen twenty times before, 
or yawning over shop counters, whilst she looked at ribbands 
and lace, and cliosc cambric for pocket handkei chiefs. He 



was also ecjoa^Jy at my lord's disposal, and \^as in fact 
ready at the beck and call of his nobk new acquaintance 
from cock-crow to the hour of repose. 

The lord and the lady probably say : What a useful good 
nalured creature Mr. Candy is !" 

Useful he certainly may be, but as to his good nature, 
what would have become of it had he met Mr. and Mrs. 
Snooks from the city, his mother's second cousins, instead 
of meeting with a titled stranger ? Snooks and his %vife 
would hate found cousin Candy always particularly sorry 
he was particularly engaged. 

Mr. Candy had always highly appreciated a word or a 
bow from the Earl of Shropshire ; but now that an acquaint- 
ance with the said earl seemed a probable passport to an 
introduction to two pair of real live crowned heads, he was 
in a perfect fever of de'ight, and called and recalled until at 
length he found the earl not only at home, but actually at 
home to him. 

*' You must have a delightful time with your illustrious 
companions, my lord ?" 

^* Every dignity brings with it its anxieties, its awful 
responsibilities." 

*^ jytosltruej.mTlord," said Mr. Candy; 'Svhat amuse- 
ment do they propose to honour with their presence 
to-night ?" 

** Almack's, I believe; we are hourly expecting the 
tickets." 

** Almack's ! dear me, the duchess ail ways asks me why 
I never go to Almack's ; but, as I tell her grace, I am so 
dilatory, so passive about such things." 

*^ Oh, you are perfectly right ; / merely go because my 
daughters like to see me there." 



-117- 

** True, my lord ; as your lordship observes, il is right to 
be seen there now and then. I begin to >vish I had availed 
myself of one of the tickets of one of my noble friends." 
Mr. Candy never was offered a ticket in his life ! 

** We shall see you there, I trust," replied the earl, who 
only periodically could obtain tickets for his own family, 
but who felt sure of admission for the party. 

At this moment the countess and her daughters entered 
the room ; Mr. Candy's fluctuating hopes now rose three 
degrees. 

The young ladies were in dismay; they had seen no 
tickets, they concluded the earl had received them. 

^' Can I do any thing, or run any where?" said Mr, 
Candy. 

'* I will send my servant to Willis's," said the earl ; 
**nay, I cannot think of troubling you." 

But Mr. Candy never voluntarily yielded a commission 
to a hireling: he was always endeavouring to lay great 
people under small obligations; and before another word 
could be spoken, he was on his way to King Street. 

Lighter than a lamplighter he speeded along Pall Mall, 
and very shortly returned, but without any tickets ; the ap- 
plication was refused : and it was afterwards rumoured that 
the ladies patronesses had unanimously excluded the crown- 
ed heads, declaring that neither rank, nor riches, nor 
sceptres can purchase Fashion ! 

Query, What will purchase it ? 

Pretension, impudent self-possession, staring, striding, 
crowd-elbowing, loud-laughing Folly ! 

But there is a better thing in England than fashion ; the 
high-born, high-bred, high-minded superiority of England's 
old nobility ! Over ihem fashion has no influence ; they 



— ii8— 

dare to laugh al her eccentricities. Fashion is but a vulgar 
dame after all : every country town miss talks of fashion : 
she descends to the very lowest, but she can never rise to 
the very highest. 

A¥hat was to be done ? The noble house of Shrop- 
shire was not sufficiently high-minded to disregard this 
mortifying rejection ; *'the attempt and not the deed" con- 
founded them. But, fortunately, the illustrious strangers, 
like most foreigners who are hurried through an uncertain 
number of sights in a certain time, had no idea what was 
their destination on that particular evening ; and were there- 
fore quite satisfied when they were informed that a box 
was prepared for them at Covent Garden I'heatre. 

Precisely at seven o'clock the party entered their box, 
which was tastefully fitted up for their reception. They 
were received by the proprietors, and managers, and act- 
ing managers, with the customary etiquette, backing most 
adroitly up stairs, and holding wax candles in their hands 
(which circumstance was properly stated in the papers the 
next morning, for fear it should be supposed that tallow 
had been used on the occasion). 

Far be it from me, their most humble chronicler, to 
speak slightingly of their Majesties of Hearts and Diamonds ; 
on the contrary, I would maintain a paper war with any 
one who dared to insinuate that these honours were not 
dealt most fairly : but, on some occasions, 1 cannot help 
thinking that these distinctions have been lavished rather 
injudiciously, and that royally has been made too common. 
The enthusiasm of such a welcome is honourable to the 
monarch who receives it, and the subjects who bestow it ; 
'^rhere is a meaning in swch a welcome. But there is no 
meaning whatever in placing a tattooed chief, or a iloltenlot 



^119- 

Venus of the blood royal, on the same eminence. There is 
too much of the Dollalolia in such an exhibition. When' 
his majesty squats uneasily, as if he considered his chair ain 
inconvenience, and the queen wipes her ebony nose with 
her illustrious white satin play bill. 

'^* What is the play, my lord?" said ilie (^een of^ 
Biamonds. 

'' A favourite old Knglish opera, the music of which has 
been long celebrated.'' 

"Indeed ! how fortunate we came to night ! I particularly 
wished to hear this music : pray, procure me a printed copy 
of the play, that I may be able to understand the meaning 
of what 1 hear, by referring occasionally to the book. 
Hush ! the heroine is pi-eparing to sing." ' 

Miss Martingale, who represented a simple. Englisa 
country lass, now sang, in character, a loud trumpeting 
song, about tartan plaid, and battle and victory : it was re- 
ceived with acclamations, and encored. The kings and 
queens were puzzled ; it is true that IVIiss 'Mariingalc per- 
mitted them to comprehend only a Vvord here or there of 
what she was singing; but* those few words were sought 
ill vain in the printed copy, and Lord Shropshire had to 
explain that the song incidental to the piece had been omit- 
ted, and a favourite Scotch ballad substituted in its place. In 
the following scene' the lover was to be reconciled to his 
rustic mistress, to fall on one knee, kiss lier hand, and sing 
a plaintive ditty ; so at least said the book. But after duly 
performing the kiss, the lover coolly arose, turned away 
from the accomplished Miss Martingale, advanced to the 
front of the stage, and sang "the Minstrel Boy to the \^~ar 
is gone." This occurred almost in every scene, and the 
crowned heads at length concluded that the Eiiglish people, 



— I 20^ — 

Avhen ihey came to the theatre on purpose to hear the 
music of one favourite opera, were always best pleased 
when the performers sang them the music of another. > 

* * Which is most attractive, think you — tragedy or co- 
medy ?" said He of Diamonds. 

'* Neither can boast much attraction,— r^a/ horses, real 
fire, real water are the true magnets. The people can see 
these interesting realities every day in the open air ; yet 
put them in a play, and print them in red letters in the 
bill, and the house will be full !" 

I have been strangely neglectful of the Kings of Clubs 
and Spades ; they, alas! were less uxorious than the po- 
tentates concerning whom I have been writing. "When 
a party of pleasure was proposed, they agreed to leave 
their respective queen-consorts in their regal bowers, and 
to go to England en gargons. The King of Clubs indeed 
was any thing but a lady's man. \x\his dominions men 
congregated together, enjoying all the luxuries of French 
cookery, and all the splendour of ormolu and scagliola, 
while the fair sex were left to the solitary enjoyment of 
home and its inferior accommodations. The Queen of 
Clubs was fortunately of a very domestic turn, she there- 
fore was content to preside over her nursery, and superin- 
tend preparations of pap, while her lord was far away 
enjoying himself in Old England. Escorted by the Earl 
of Shropshire, and followed by Mr. Silverton Candy, 
liis majesty began his inspection of the clubs of the 
metropolis. 

They entered a magnificent palace in St. James's Street, 
where the King of Clubs could not but feel at home. 

" This is indeed," he exclaimed, *' a truly royal abode ; 
I have seen several of the residences of your nobility, but 







— 121 — 

this, both in external and internal splendour far outshines 
them all." 

** This is the most celebrated establishment in England," 
replied the earl ; ** and here, with all due deference to 
your sacred majesty, reigns a King of Clubs, second only 
to yourself. This is a hell, and there sits the prince of 
darkness, Crockery by name, and originally a Muscleman : 
he is now at his desk, casting up his diabolical items." 

** And who are his subjects? Aj-e these your young no- 
bility, who lounge in his magnificent saloons ?" 

** Indeed," replied Mr. Silverton Candy, with a shrug, 
"his subscription list is not so select as (V« could wish it: 
here are nobles, 'tis true, but their nobility would not ren- 
der them welcome to him, were they not backed by a 
rent-roll. The balls on his coronet would never preserve 
a poor peer from being blackballed. The rich are always 
welcome here : yonder is an affluent professional — there 
is the spendthrift son of a once industrious wholesale 
dealer in bombazeens, and stretched on that gilded otto- 
man is a rich city merchant." 

** A merchant ! ought he not to be minding his ledger ?", 

** Ledger ! no, no ; legerdemain, sleight of hand — se- 
ven's the main, — hang the ledger ! Young merchants now 
leave their day-books, attend to their night-books, and 
register debts of honour. The modern maxim is — *all 
work and no play will make Jack a dull boy.' " 

" What a superb establishment! is it supported by 
annual subscriptions ?" 

^' Nominally so ; but the outgoings would very soon 
exceed the incomings were there no other resources. 
Crockery's cook is an artiste of the very first fame, and 
receives an income far beyond that enjoyed by the junior 



— I 22~-~ 

branches of most families. Oh, ye young cornels, and 
curates, and counsellors, when will your embryo tialen Is 
realise such wealth !" ' 

** Isthe proprietor liberal?" 

*' Ohl vastly ; gives the most perfect suppers, and the 
most exquisite wines." 

*' Gives ihem?'' 

*' Yes, gives them ; but after supper play commences, 
— * the pfajr, the plafs the thing' which renumerates the 
liberal host." 

** Are any of his most noted playmates now present ?" 

*' Let me see : yes, there is a member of parliament, 
who, only last night, won from a young man all that he 
possessed : you see him to day all smiles and good hu- 
mour, yet he knows that the unfortunate youth must leave 
his country, and that his property must be sold. The debt 
of honour must be paid ; and the right honourable winner 
is going down to his county, where he will be hailed by 
his constituents as a man of proper feeling and strict mo- 
rality, because he will fine yourg clodpoles for playing 
chuckfarthing in a country churchyard ; or send itinerant 
hucksters to jail, because in the depth of their booths, on 
the race-course, may be discovered some unauthorised 
game of chance ! Well done, thou supporter of Crockery !" 

'* Who is yonder gentleman ?" 

** Oh, the person so exquisitely dressed, so exactly the 
proper thing, from the primrose kid of his glove to the 
glossy jet of his moustache ? That is the husband of one 
of the loveliest women in town." 

'* Happy man !" 

** Oh very — that is, very happy in his own way, no 
doubt. He has already dissipated most of his property, 



— 120 

SO that his fair v\ ife's prospects arc at best precarious : he 
is proud of having it said that he is the husband of a pretty 
woman, but leaves her to her own pursuits. He is to be 
seen here night after night, and seldom arrives at home 
before six in the morning." ' 

The King of Clubs was of course in his element, and 
bestowed all due commendation on an establishment so 
highly creditable to its supporters, and so well calculated 
to improve the morals and the manners of the age. 

From Crockery's his majesty proceeded to half a dozeii 
other establishments in the neighbourhood, where elderly 
gentlemen sit at large windows, hour after hour, discus- 
sing the demerits of pedestrians, and criticising coats and 
hats ; or looking under bonnets, and praising '* vastly fine 
women.'' 

"• This," said the earl, ** is the Alma Mater Club, fa- 
mous for port wine and portly personages. Here heads 
of houses, and doctors, and proctors enjoy, their otiumcuin 
dignitate ; and because they live together for three parts of 
the year at their universities, and enjoy no female society, 
they have established this rendez-vous, that they may Jive 
together again during the short time they are in London, 
and see as little of the fair sex as ever." 

'* Dear me," said '^Iy. Candy, " the place has a very 
fusty smell — an odious odour of stale wigs ! This is the 
United Anchor and Blunderbuss Club. Take an army list 
in one hand and a navy list in the other, and let us enter 
the mess-room ; it does one's heart good to look round it, 
and see the heroes who have encountered perils and pri- 
vations by land and by water, comfortably congregated 
i0(?,ether, enjoying the luxuries of Old England. This is 
the Castalian Club, specially established for literary mcu, 
and tor the patrons of literalurc." 



24 



** Dellglilful !" said the King of Clubs, as he entered 
the saloon ; * ' supported by talent and patronage ! None 
of course are elected but persons of literary pursuits, 
either the readers or the writers of highly intellectual 
works." 

'* Oh dear me ! no : it is, I believe, generally understood 
that the members of the Castalian Club can read and write ; 
but what they read, and what they write does not much 
signify: they come here principally to read the newspapers, 
and write to country cousins. The latter, by the by, is an 
economical practice, as subscribers are allowed pens, ink, 
and paper, sand, wax, and wafers, paper-knives, seals, 
and blotting-books, without any extra charge. They have 
a tea party here once a week, during the sitting of parlia- 
ment, the oddest looking thing in nature — a male tea party ! 
I have often heard the tea kettles singing as I have driven 
by to an assembly. Once I dropped in, — such a buzz of 
voices was never heard before — (that is, never at a he tea 
party!) There was a slight sprinkling of literati, and a 
slighter of rank : there was a full dressed poet or two, who 
had dropped in purposely to talk about *' the first circles," 
and to mention casually that they were going to Almack's ; 
and that really and truly they never could by any possibi- 
lity contrive to dine at the club, as the rank and fashion of 
London were boring them to death with invitations, and 
actually clambering over one another's backs to be the fust 
to inveigle them into their houses." 

** You are getting severe," said the King of Clubs. 

** Not at all, such are too truly the littlenesses of great 
^inds. Then there were professors of all sorts otologics, 
itt their morning costume, and shabby looking men talking 
over clever papers in the Quarterly ; and elegantly dressed 



— 125— 

striplings escaped from college, and just admitted members 
of the Castalian, lounging in one chair, with their legs iri 
another, reading the last new fashionable novel written by 
the Countess of Carberry's lady's-maid." 

I'he party now proceeded to the Omnium Gatherum 
Club. 

*' This," said the earl, "has one great recommendation 
for me it : is a medley. The members of all the other clubs 
are eligible for this also, and it strikes me, that a man may 
chance to be most amused and instructed at a place where 
the assembly is not entirely made up of persons whose pro- 
fession and pursuits are exactly similar to his own. ys ere 
I an apothecary — " 

** An apothecary !" cried Mr. Candy ; ** correct yourself, 
pray, the term is obsolete." 

** Well, were I a medical adciser^ I w^ould avoid the 
united universal Pestle and Mortar Club, for in my hours 
of relaxation I should like a little variety." 

* ' Did I hear you say that the term apothecary is obsolete ?" 
inquired his Majesty of Clubs. 

'' Oh, dear, yes, quite gone by : there are physicians, 
and surgeons, and medical advisers ; but let the term apo- 
thecary slip out, and, like Lenitive in the Prize, your indig- 
nant attendant will, in a paroxysm of offended pride — " 

'* What— what will he do ?" 

*' Send in his bill. But we really do want a new dic- 
tionary ; we have no attorneys now ; we have professional 
friends, and solicitors ; cooks are professors of gastronomy ; 
singers and dancers are artistes; and schoolmasters and 
mistresses are the heads of establishments, and preparatory 
seminaries of young gentlemen and ladies." 

The King of Clubs having made the tour of his domi- 



nions, returned to his chambers ; and being oat of heaiing, 
I may venture a remark or two respecting the boasted ad- 
vantages of these associations. Far more cheap, and far 
more commodious than hotels used to bcy they assuredly 
are ; and country curates, poor poets, and gentlemen who 
live on very small means, may now take a, slice of the 
joint, with a quarter of a pint of sherry, for next to nothing 
at all ; sitting, at the same time, with their feet on aTmkey 
carpet, lighted by ormolu chandeliers , surrounded by gold 
and marble, and waited upon by liveried domestics, with 
the additional glory of walking away, and * 'giving nothing 
to the waiter." Nay, the more dainty gentleman may order 
his coteleite aux tomates and his omeleie soufjlce^ at a mo- 
derate expense. But, alas, the King of Clubs is antima- 
trimonial, the dowagers know it, the governors acknow- 
ledge it, and the spinsters feel it most keenly. 

Men, in most countries, owe what they possess of 
suavity of manners to their intercourse with female society ; 
after the drudgery of a professional morning, young men 
used to brush themselves up for their evening flirtations ; 
but now few feminine drawing-rooms can tempt them to 
leave their luxurious palaces, where evening surtouts, and 
black neckcloths, and boots, may be freely indulged in. 
The wife takes her chop, and a half boiled potatoe at home, 
while her husband, who always has some excuse for dining 
at his club, is sure to enjoy every thing, the best of its kind, 
and cooked a merQeille. As to the young gentlemen who 
reap the advantages of these cheap and gilded houses of 
accommodation, it may be questioned whether they are 
thus enabled hereafter properly to appreciate the comforts 
of a home, the decorations of the farm-house residence of 
a cuiale, or the plain cookery of the farmer's wife, >vho 



flrcsses his dinner wiihout even professing to be a cook. 
The King of Spades, also, went his rounds, accompanied 
by the most eminent architects and engineers of the day. 
He dug deeply into the secret histories of the foundations 
of our national buildings, saw through the c^/^orders of the 
egg-shell school of architecture, kept clear of the tottering 
lath and plaster of some of the new buildings, acknowledg- 
ing that if such materials did ever tumble down, it was a 
comfort to know that they were considerably lighter than 
stone and cast iron. He felt a great respect for such per- 
sons of rank as professed to be supporters of the drama, 
trusting that they would keep the ceilings of the theatres 
from tumbling into the pits. He spent great part of his 
time in the Thames Tunnel, and if he ever felt a doubt res- 
pecting the ultimate success of that undertaking^ he did 
justice to the enterprise and skill of its projector, that illus- 
trious mole, and sincerely wished that zeal and talent might 
ultimately be crowned with success. He took shares in 
many mining speculations, and, in many instances, lived to 
repent it; for he got into troubled waters, and sought for 
his ore in vain. He attended agricultural meetings, and 
endeavoured to comprehend that debateabk query, the corn 
question; he argued the point, like other great people, as 
if he did understand it, and got into repute with the leading 
Chiropodists, or corn cutters, of the day. He went to 
Cheltenham, and became proprietor of a acre of ground, 
on which he dug a score wells, and professed to find at the 
bottom of each of them, a spring of water sufficiently saline 
to pickle the constitutions of all valetudinarians. He was 
horticultural to a most praise yvorthy extent, offering pnzes 
to the ingenious young Meadows's who bring forth gigantic 
gooseberries, supernatural strawberries, and miraculous 



melons. He went into the country, and endeavoured to pe- 
netrate beyond the mere surface of things, listening to the 
speeches of county members, and dining diligently in warm 
weather with mayors, and people with corporations. He 
endeavoured to detect the root of all evil, investigated the 
ramifications of radical reform, and exposed the ephemeral 
bulbous roots of speculation. Prejudice he found too 
deeply rooted to be dug up very easily, whilst the fashions 
and follies of the day seemed to him to lie so entirely on the 
surface of the soil, and to be so shortlived, that to throw 
away any manual labom^ in an attempt to eradicate them, 
would be absurd. 

*' What can be the matter with your majesty? " 
exclaimed the Queen of Hearts, one morning, when slie 
perceived her bosom's lord enter her boudoir pale as 
ashes. 

'* We are undone, my love ! " 

** You palpitate me, " said the queen, ** what can be 
the matter? " 

** We are betrayed I "- 

•' Betrayed! " 

'' There's going to be a war! " 

** A war ! and we in a foreign country ! " 

** It has been arranged in the most deliberate manner ; 
they have actually advertised the exact day and hour oa 
which hostilities are to commence. '' 

** What day? what hour ? " 

** This very day ! this very hour! " 

** Oh, treachery ! How did you discover the plot? " 

** Here is the manifesto, " said the agitated monarch, 
taking from his pocket a printed paper; *^ and, see, they 
have actually placed at the head of it a pictu. e, represcn.ing 



two Vrutal and infariated combatants , who are tearing the 
clothes from each other's bodies ! " - 

** Horrible !" sighed the Queen. 

" See, see in large letters! ' Great Fight to take place,' 
— and here, no doubt, are the generals' names, Spring !— * 
Neate ! — What is to be done ! " ^ 

** I'll pack up my millinery at eight-and-forty hours 
warning, " said the Queen. 

** But, see, the Earl is here ; he perhaps will explain." 

The King in a few words told his grief, and the Earl, 
laughing in spite of decorum, replied : ' 

** Your majesty has been unnecessarily alarmed; that 
paper is no manifesto— no declaration of war ; it is of the 
same nature as a play bill, it is the announcement of a 
public entertainment. " 

** What means this disgusting picture then, and the 
portentous words, ' Great Fight ? ' " 

** The print represents two pugilists, persons who meet 
by agreement, and having stripped themselves, as you src, " 
^heybeat one another with their clenched fists, on the head 
and body, until one is conquered. " 

* ' It is make believe, of course ?" 

^' No, indeed ; the object of each is to wound the other 
severely, and incapacitate him for continuing the combat; 
blood is always spilled. Thousands of people assemble to 
witness it, it causes quite a holiday; nothing, they tell me, 
can be more delightful ; one or other of the fighters is often 
mortally wounded, and occasionally killed on the spot." 

" Killed!" 

' * I wonder you never heard of this sport ; noblemen ar d 
gentlemen make up a purse to reward the victor, and ti e 
papers are full of it all ne^t day! I have often known them 

9 



I JO- 



stop the press to enable the polite world to obtain ^aiiy 
intelligence respecting the finale of the fight." 

** And who are the fighting men ?" 

** Persons of great strength ; but the science of the thing 
i&the most gratifying part ; it is not so much the deUght of 
seeing men kill one another, that collects the spectators, as 
the knowledge that it is all done deliberately and in cold 
blood -, each of them has made the art of killing the chief 
study of his Kfe. It is quite charming, IVe heard, to see them 
feigning one blow, while they meditate another; pretending 
to aim at an eve, and then adroitly and unexpectedly driving 
an antagonist's teeth down liis thi oat." 

*' But if all this is tolerated^ surely.it is not encouraged by 
influential persons ?" 

•* Oh dear, yes, it is; a stage is dehberately erected^ 
seconds are appointed, and the fight is cheered with 
acclamations, until one of the half naked performers falls 
exhausted; they then raise him, revive him, encourage him, 
and urge him to renew the battle ; which he probably does, 
staggering, and unable to see his opponent ; and, at length, 
when heis again prostrate, covered with blood and bruises, 
they suffer him to be carried off, and declare the other 
victorious; though, probably, he is scarcely in a better 
condition himself." 

*' Oh 1" said the Queen, " I thoughtyou a civilized nation!" 

** Have you gladiators ?" 

«i Oh, no 1 horrible !" replied the Earl. 

^' Bull fights?" 

«t ]s^o — so cruel, you know, to the poor dumb animals !" 

-»* Well, I thought," said the Queen, ''that youcouldnot 
sanction such enormities ; yet I read, in one of your lying 
newspapers, an account of a poultry battle 1" 



**. Quite true, I dare gay; very entertaining, I believe; 
and certainly very popular in some parts of England." 

'' Is it possible ! what, little cocks and hens ?" 

" No,nothens ; female poultry are not pugnacious, only 
cocks." 

*' Armed, by those who set them on, with steel spurs ; 
and then they fight with these weapons, till one or both fall 
down dead ! so said the paper." 

** Oh, very true ; the cacks like it, they do indeed." 

*' Well, then, I suppose you will tell me that racehorses 
like to be mged beyond their natural spqed ?" 

•* The noble animal's spirit rejoices m the competition." 

** But What does the noble animars spirit endure, when 
in his old age (blind of an eye, and with infirmities, caused 
by over exertion, thronging fast upon him ) he is goaded 
onwards by a stage coachman, at the rate of nine miles an 
hour? For a particularly humane nation,! cannot help 
thinking you guilty of extraordinary cruelty to animals." 

** A mistake, upon my honour." 

*• Why, did not you yourself insist on galloping 
posthorses all the way to Ascot, and did not one of them 
fall down dead on the course ?" 

* * The heat of the weather was the cause, and that I could 
not help: I assure you we are very humane, we have humane , 
societies." 

'' Yet your amusements, independent of the disgusting 
one you have this day described to me, are often of a horrid 
and unfeeling nature." 

' * W hat can your maj esty mean ?' ' 

• ' Why, at many of your amusements, the chief attraction 
consists in the extreme bodily peril in which the exhibiteris 
placed. You took me to see a man walk up a rope, to an 



-1 33-^ 

iTami»3s« heigkt, and had his foot slipped, he must hare, be en 
dashed to pieces : the place was crowded with persons who 
were in raptures ; yet had the man been dancing on level 
ground, he would have danced far better; and the merit of 
the dancer seemed to consist in his giving the audience a chance 
of seeing him break his neck or dash his brains out! If a 
foreigner were to announce that he would dance on a 
pack-thread, he would ruin the ropedancer, because, as the 
thread would in all probability break, his danger would be 
greater, and therefore his exhibition would be incomparable ! 
Then you all delight in distortions ; if a man can bend his 
back bone, or sit up6n his head, you are in raptures, and seem 
to think it a good joke to see a fellow creature shortening his 
life. Then if any man will ride a dozen horses at once , without 
saddle or bridle ; or go into an oven and be baked brown, 
or eat a fire shovel full of burning coals, or drink deadly 
poison, or fly off a church steeple, or thrust a pointed 
instrument down his throaty or walk on a ceiling with his 
head downwards, or go to sea in a washing tub, you would 
not lose the sight for the world ; you clap your hands, shout 
with delight, and hold up your little children, that they may 
share papa and mamma's rational amusement ! And yet you 
tell me your national characteristic is humanity 1" 

** Pray, excuse me, but I must say, your majesty 
takes a contracted view of the subject. Believe me, we 
are nationally most sensitively humane ; you know we 
abhor the word sla<?eJ*^ 

" The word slave, I admit, but it strikes mc your 
abhorrence is directed principally against the mere name." 

*' How so r 

*' Why, I have been told, by those who have had 
opporlunitiesof judging fail ly, that slaves are well treated 



-i33- 

in t!ie West India islands, and that they art as happy 
as the generality of servants in England: you know as 
well as I do, that servants here are too frequently haughtily 
and improperly treated. The servant of a bad British 
master would be better off as the slave of a kind and 
humane West Indian ; your indignation should therefore 
be consistent, and abolish servitude at home, as well as 
slavery abroad, because abuses may be discovered in 
both. Don't mistake me, I am not advocating slavery, 
but exposing inconsistency. 

*' You wrong us, you do indeed," said the Earl ; *' w« 
are, I assure you, tender-hearted in the extreme. " 

'* You certainly ought to know best, " replied the Queen; 
** but, I confess, where Hearts have dominion, many 
things which I see here would be deemed barbarous. " 

** I cannot understand your language at all, " said the 
Queen of Hearts to the Countess ; ^^ I have studied it gram- 
matically, and / can speak it ; but every day something con- 
vinces me that I do not comprehend what people are 
saying. " 

*' It will be my pleasure, as it is my duty, to give your 
majesty all the information in my power. " 

** Well, then I will tell you some of the phrases that 
puzzle me. Affectionate friend — what can you mean by a 
devoted, attached, affectionate friend? You read a note 
to me which you had written to your husband's cousin — 
Mr. Mears, I believe, who used to be very intimate with 
you, was he not. " 

** Yes, very — a long time ago. " 

* ' W ell, you wrote to him about some trifle in which 
you thought he could oblige you, or accomodate vou ; and 
you signed yourself liis attached relative and alfectionale 
friend. ". 



-i34- 

** Oh, yes — true— -I had an answer from him, in which 
he lamented his inability to comply with my request. '' 

*' Well, yesterday you received a letter from A/'m, in 
which he requested your assistance, mentioned some unex- 
pected pecuniary losses, and said, that the loan of a small 
sum of money would prevent his experienciug great incon- 
venience; to my surprise, though 1 know you had the 
maney unemployed, you refused his request, and again, 
signed yousself his attached and affectionate friend. " 

*' Oh, yes, I did so ; affectionate friend is — is— a phrase 
—it is used to wards a person you have known a long lime, 
as you use the phrase, Z)^^.- Madam, to a lady you have 
known a week." 

*' W ell, every person has» of course, a right to do 
what they please with their worldly goods; but if youjare 
utterly regardless of the weal or woe, the standing or the 
falling of an individual , it does seem to me like an insult, 
talking to him of attachment and friendship. Pray tell me 
who are your friends. " 

*' Oh, the well dressed people we meet in our walks 
and drives, that 1 nod to and smile to, and talk about the 
weather to. " 

" So, then, I am to understand that, with you, friend- 
ship is a matter of business! Well, now, here is some- 
thing else that puzzles me : you tell me that you must go 
into mourning for a relation ; well, I have looked into my 
xlictionary for the verb, Mo mourn, 'and I find it means 
* to grieve, to lament, to bewail. ' But your mourning 
has no such meaning , for you have been in particularly 
good spirits ever since you mentioned the circumstance. " 

*' True; your majesty must know that it is the custom 
lo wear black for relatives, for a certain time, and we have 



— 135— 

deep mourning, half mourning, and slight mourning; 
N\ hich does not exactly mean deep grieving, half grieving, 
a 'd slight grieving. We throw by our colours, because 
it is decent so to do, for distant deaths are really made 
absurdly public now, and one can't lose a cousin at the 
Land's end, without all our acquaintances seeing it in the 
papers. " 

' ' What is mourning then ? " 

*' It is another word for bombasine." 

In the dominion of Hearts, mourning has a meaning 
beyond " the weeds of woe." 

" There is another question I would ask, "said the 
Queen; "one of a delicate nature — You have spoken of 
* modest women. " Pray, may I inquire ?^ — I trust you 
will excuse the question — may I ask whether all those 
females I met at the assemblies I have been to are " modest 
women r " 

" Assuredly, indisputably, undoubtedly. " 

*' Indeed, '' 

'' Oh! decidedly. " 

*' Well, it only showshow foreigners may be deceived. 
There is Mrs Laxington now, she — is a married woman." 

** Yes — separated from her husband." 

•' Ay, separated, but not divorced, and therefore cannot 
marry any body else : Why then does she permit the 
undisguised attentions of Mr. Mortimer? No two lovers 
were evermore inseparable, and as the connexion cannot 
end in marriage, I am surprised at its being sanctioned in 
society. " 

*' Oh ! we have not seen any thing actually wrong, and, 
poor thing ! she does not live with her husband." 

*' As to sm/zg' any thing actually wrong, she would be 



?i^-, 



— i3b— 



strangely careless, were she to softer you to do so ; but 
there is every appearance of impropriety. I have heard 
nujich of the purity and propriety of English society ; hut 
confess my short visit to London has made me suspect 
that the continental trips of your countrymen have taught 
them to look with a more foreign and favourable eye on 
those who are caught tripping at home. We will, however, 
change the subject," 

*' If you please. " 

'* You speak sometimes of men of honour, and in my 
dictionary I find that honour is dignity, reputation, and 
virtue. Is lord Gravesend a man of honour? " 

'* Oh dear, yes. " 

*^ He is a seducer, is he not ? " 

■* Why—upon my word — I — that is — it is no business 
of mine to inquire. " 

♦^ You have heard that he is one? " 

♦'Yes." 

*' Do you doubt the truth of the report? " 

•' No. " 

♦* You cannot doubt it, for all the world knows who 
was his victim. W^here then is the honour of Lord Graves- 
end ? What right have you to sanction his pretensions 
to dignity, reputation, and virtue ? Is Mr. Maxwell a map 
of honour? " 

*' Assuredly." 

*' He is a blackleg, is he not^ " 

*' A blackleg? oh, no; he plays high. '' 

** Yes, great part of his income is derived from cool 
calculations on the results of games played with those who 
are heedless and unpractised. I must be permitted to make 
a distinction between the man who plays casually for am- 



f. 



-.37- 

usemcnt, and him who reckons on the profits of his ganihoh 
just as if it were his profession. There is neither honour, 
dignity, reputation, nor virtue in such a life. Is Mr. 
Babbitts a man of honour ? ^' 

** In the strictest sense of the word.*' 

* * Living at the rate of thousands a year, when his in- 
come is just so many hundreds ? furnishing his house 
magnificently without ever intending to pay for a pipkin, 
and at last making a sudden disappearance, which closely 
resembles what I have heard described as an Irish ' moon- 
light flitting, ' where a tenant, who is unable to pay his 
rent, departs at dead of night with his wife and other 
moveables, having previously thrashed his grain, and left the 
straw in its place to keep up appearances ! The flittings of 
some of your leading stars in the hemisphere of fashion, 
are very similar; yet afterwards you may see them at 
some watering place, as gay and as expensive as ever ! Have 
they mislaid their bills, and forgotten the names of their 
creditors? If so, let them call for the Gazette, and look over 
the list of bankrupts. Such is the honour of Mr. Rabbitts!" 

*' Can I enlighten your majesty in any other particular?" 
said the Countess, secretly rather displeased with this dis- 
cussion. 

*' Yes," replied the Queen ; *'I wish to know what is 
meant by devotion. My dictionary informs me that to be 
devout is to be pious, religious, and sincere ; bat I have been 
puzzled beyond measure, for it is evident to me that I do 
not properly comprehend what /oMr view of the subject is: 
now tell me what is devotion ?" 

*' Oh ! devotion is — hem! — saying one's prayers, going 
to church, and — and duly observing the sabbath." 

" Saying your prayers? x\y, that is private devotion, 



"--138- 

and of course implies, I conclude, not only a repetition of 
a form of prayer, but a deep feeling of the meaning of what 
you are saying. Well now, 1 cannot imagine what time 
jou can find for this duty, but that is no business of mine. 
Going to church comes next in your definition of devotion ; 
ih'at'joxjLv consider an imperative duty?" 

** Absolutely requisite." 

** Well, as far as I have been able to judge, going to 
church and observing the sabbath amount to this : You get 
up late, tired to death with the fatigues of the w^eek, and . 
particularly with the opera and supplementary supper 
party of the preceding night ; you breakfast in a hurry, but 
by the time your hair, hat, and shaw 1 are adjusted to your 
satisfaction, it is a quarter of an hour past the time at which 
the service commences ; you then drive to your chapel, 
selected because it is fashionable, and almost as exclusive as 
your assemblies; parade up to your pew with a servant 
after you, because you cannot condescend to carry your 
prayer-book, and then go through the established forms of 
kneeling, bending the head, and covering your eyes with 
your lily hand ; you look round the chapel, mentally cri- 
ticising bonnets and gowns; smell to salts, and complain 
to your neighbour that you are sufteiing from the heat 
(j'ou who have spent the last six evenings in rooms lighted 
and crowded to suffocation !) After the service is over, 
you nod to all your friends, chat to those who are near 
YOU, hope no colds w^ere caught at balls, and fear that 
Ascot will ruin the next opera night. If the solemn service 
just concluded is alluded to at all, it is with a sneer at the 
drawl of the reader, or a note of admiration earned by the 
white hands and gentlemanly delivery of the preacher. 
After church, you admit visiters, and laugh over the 



kincheon tray ; then drire in the Park, or walk in Kensington 
(hardens; then dine out, or receive company at home ; and 
in the evening go to an assembly or a concert, given by 
some dame of fashion, who regularly lights up her housej 
and scandalizes her neighbourhood by collecting frivolous 
crowds within^ and swearing footmen without her doors, 
on the evening of every sabbath day. This seems to me to 
be the devotion of the fashionable world; and surely this 
is not piety, religion, and sincerity." 

** This is a serious subject, which I do not profess to be 
competent to discuss ; we consider it bad style to interfere 
in such matters." 

" Well then, to turn to matters of less import, may I 
ask what you mean by style ?" 

*♦ Style— oh, there is good style and bad style, and high 
style and low style— r" 

" Well, to begin then, what is good style ?" 

" All that is comme il faut^ all that is fashionable, all 
that is French. Good style of living consists in having a 
mansion exquisitely fitted up wdthall the expensive bijou- 
terie compatible with true elegance, yet avoiding the lavish 
superabundance of gimcrackery which borders on vulgarity ; 
comely serving men in suitable liveries, all so well initiated 
into the mysteries of their respective duties, that a guest 
could imagine himself in a fairy palace, where plates 
vanish without the contamination of a mortal fmger and 
thumb, and glasses move without a jingle : then the feast 
is exquisitely cooked and exquisitely served; the table 
groans not, the hostess carves not ; but one delicious dainty 
is followed by another, and each remove brings forth a 
dish more piquant than the last : every thing is delightful, 
but there must appear to be an abundance of jiothing ,- 



— i4o — 

two spoonfuls alone of each delicious viand should re- 
pose under its silver cover ; and he who dared ask to he 
helped a second time to any thing ought to he sentenced 
to eternal transportation from the region of ha;U ton." 
** Dear me ! and what is had style of living ?" 
' * Shocking even to describe ! A large house in streets 
or squares unknown ; hot, ugly men servants, stumhling 
over one another in their uncouth eagerness to admit you ; 
your name mispronounced, and shouted at the drawing- 
room door ; your host and hostess in a fuss, apologizing, 
asking questions, and boring you to death ; dinner at length 
announced, but no chance of extrication from the dull 
drawing-room, because the etiquette of precedence is not 
rightly understood, and nobody knows who ought to be led 
out first ; all the way down stairs a dead silence, and then the 
difficulty of distributing the company almost equals the pre- 
vious dilemma of the drawing-room : wives are wittily 
w^arned against silting by husbands, and two gentlemen 
are facetiously interdicted from sitting together ; the hostess 
takes the top of the table to be useful, not ornamental, for 
fish and joint, and turkey, must she carve ; whilst her 
husband, at the other end of the mahogany, must equally 
make a toil of a pleasure, and yet smile as if it were a 
pleasure to toil ! The beasts of the earth and the birds of 
the air appear upon the board, scorning disguise, in their 
own proper forms, just as they stepped out of INoah's 
ark, always excepting those who are too unwieldy to be 
present in whole skins ; and even they send their joints to 
table in horrid unsophistication ! Sweets follow, but how 
unlike the souffles of Ude ! Grim green gooseberries, 
lurking under their heavy coverings of crust ; and custards, 
the "plain produce of the dairy, embittered with bay leaves, 



-.4 — 

cinnamon, and cloves ! Cheese follows, with the alterna- 
tives of port wine and porter ; and all this weary tunc the 
servants have been knocking your head about, thumbing 
your plate, or pouring lobster sauce into your pockets 1*' 

** Truly a tale of terror ! Pray what is a bad style of 
man?" 

" A man who wants tact." 

'* Tact ! — tact is not in my dictionary." 
, ** No ! it is a word in very common use." 

** What do you mean by wanting tact ?" 

** Xo show want of tact is to evince bad taste." 

** Still I am in the dark ; style, tact, and taste puzzle mc 
amazingly.*' 

*' It is difficult for me to explain, because your majesty 
has not seen specimens of that class of the community 
which is devoid of style, tact, and taste ; but we have them 
in town, and we meet with them at watering-places ; there 
indeed it is less in our power to keep quite clear of them. 
They are to be seen all day and all night : if the sun shines, 
tliey are promenading in its beams ; if a house is lighted up, 
they will enter its open door ; if a fiddle is heard, they are 
dancing to its squeaking ; if petticoats are worn short, 'theii-^ 
are up to their knees ; they aie never out of sight, never in 
repose ; summer and winter, day and night, they seem in 
a state of fearful excitement, flirting, philandering, raffling, 
racing, practising, and patronising ; they are great people in 
a small way, and only considered great because nothing 
greater is at hand ; they prefer reigning in hell (excuse the 
word, I quote Milton) to serving in heaven ; in London 
they would be nothing, at Hogsnmton Spa or Pumping- 
ton Wells they are every thing ; making diffioiijties about 
admissions to Lilliputian Almack's." 



* ' TMs ii is th^n to want style." 

** Oh dear, yes; but then to have style is to be always 
dressed to perfection, without appearing to care about the 
fashion ; and to take the station and precedence which you 
are entitled to, without seeming to be solicitous about it. I 
have seen dowagers at watering-places in a fever of anxiety 
about their rank and their consequence ! patronising pup- 
petshows, seizing conspicuous seats, and withholding the 
sunshine of their smiles from commoners allied to older 
nobility than their own ! How 1 should enjoy seeing them 
lost in a London crowd, where not an eye would notice 
their aristocracy, unless they wore their coronets on the 
tops of their bonnets !" 

•* Heyday ! are you a leveller of ranks V 

* ' Not I indeed ; but there may be bad style in all ranks : 
I have before told you that rank is nothing to me without 
respectability ; if a lord be gentlemanlike, and a lady lady- 
like ^ what I have said touches not them." 

** Now pray elucidate tactr 

*' Why, to have tact is to say neatly, and apparently un- 
consciously, all that is most pleasing to your hearers, avoid- 
ing all that can discompose them. The man of tact always 
seems to remember you, whatever time may have elapsed 
since you last met ; and adroitly entices you into spelling 
your o>vn name, that he may know who you are, or makes 
you mention some mutual friend as a clue to your last 
meeting. A man of tact knows when to be deaf and when 
to be blind ; with musicians he is an enthusiastic lover of 
music, with painters he can talk of lights and shades, fore- 
grounds and effects ; and when spoken to in a language of 
which he is utterly ignorant, he smiles and nods at the 
proper tmie, and contrives to act intelligence." 



" I see," said the Queen, "that I shall leave England 
with a mere smattering of the spirit of your language ',' 
there is so much" th^t appears to me to be equivocal, andJ 
to have two meanings. I came to your comitry expecting 
to lind you all (what of course you are) paragons of purity 
and propriety ; hut, on account of my ignorance of youi- 
habits, 1 declare I liave often been led to suspect that there 
is as much miscliief going on in London as in other places 
of less fortunate reputation : 1 begin to wish his majesty 
would take me home again." 

" Is your majesty afraid of us ?" 

*' Yes, candidly, 1 am ; 1 am afraid of catching the po- 
pular complaint : all the professedly sane people here are 
so evidently mad, that I am led to conclude that all the 
supposed lunatics are in their sound senses." 

** What can have caused your majesty to entertain so 
strange an opinion ?" 

" \"V hy, for instance, your gay people, who toil 
through nominal pleasures, dressing by rule and compass, 
lacing, bracing, patching, painting, plastering, penciling, 
curling, pincliing, and all to go out and be looked at: i 
going from party to party in the middle of the night,'. 
pretending not to be sleepy, suppressing each rising 
yawn , and trying to make the lips smile and the eyes . 
twinkle, and to look animated in spite of fatigue: and 
all this for no earthly purpose. — Too old to care about 
lovers, and without daughters to marry, why' should an'' 
ugly old maid of sixty-six take all these pains, or leave 
her own snug fireside, if she had not a touch of the 
popular complaint?" 

" Dear me! your majesty I" .j 

" Then your man of pleasure, risking his life at every 



■ 4i 



comer, in a cab with a leslivre horse; wearing all his 
clothes painfully light to show ofF his figure, confining 
his neck in a bandage, pouring liquids down his throat, 
though he knows ^ley will give him a headache, sitting 
up all night shaking bits of bone together for the mere 
purpose of giving somebody a chance of winning all his 
money, or offering bets on racehorses to afford himself 
and family an opportunity of exchanging opulence for 
beggary! He has the popular complaint of course." 

*' Oh fie, your majesty !" 

*' Then your man of businesSj your public servant, 
toiling, and striving and fidgeting about matters of Stale, 
sacrificing health, and the snug comforts of a private 
gentleman, for the sake of popularity ! i//s complaint /* 
popular indeed. Then your physician, courting extensive 
practice, and ambitious of the honour of never having 
time to eat a comfortable meal, and proud of being called 
out of bed the moment he is composing himself to sleep ! 
He must be raving. Then yonr barrister, fagging over 
dull books, and wearing a three-tailed wig, and talking for 
hours, that his client, right or wrong, may be successful ! 
All these people appear to me to be awfully excited : the 
popular complaint is strong upon them, and I would put 
them all into the straitest waistcoats I could procure. " 

** Bless me, we call all that energy of character! ■' 

** Oh, but you give things such contradictory names : 
What do you call the elderly man who rides one of the 
leaders when you have posthorses ?" 

*' What, old John ? oh, he is post-^o/." 

*' And what is the young lad who leaves the letters here 
in the morning ?" 

*' Oh, that Utile fellow is the post-wrt«." 



— 45- 

*' What do you call that work, in thiee volumes, all 
about religion and politico , which Lady Mary fell asleep 
over last night ? " 

** That was a new novel. " 

** And what was the book that amused you so much 
this morning ? " 

** Lectures on the first principles of science. " 

** Indeed! then novelists moralize, and lecturers sport 
with their subjects for your amusement! What was 
your youngest daughter about yesterday, when I saw her 
with a tall gentleman throwing herself into odd attitudes, 
first kicking up one leg very high, then kicking up the other 
— now hopping forwards, and now hopping backwards, 
and then throwing about her arms like the sails of a 
vindmill ? " 

*' She was learning her Calisthenics. " 

*» What are they?" 

" A material part of female education. '' 

** Oh! ril ask no more questions! How shall 1 ever 
get safe out of England without catching the popular com- 
plaint!" 

The King and Queen of Diamonds found much to 
amuse and interest them in the metropolis : nor were their 
excusions confined to the precinct of Saint James's. The 
opulent bustle of the Exchange, the floating wealth of the 
Thames, the Bank, the Mint, the Custom House, the India 
House, were all inspected in turn. Men of merchandise 
crowded round the monarch; contractors courted him, 
bankers bowed to him, speculators speechified respecting 
ihe tangible solidity of their most favourite bubbles ; and 
one and and all were eloquent in their assurances to the 
wealthy potentate , that were he to risk half his riches in 

10 



— 46-. 

Old England, the otherhalf vvouM inevitably be quadrupled. 

Her majesty was tempted at every turn with costly 
trinkets, for which she paid just double the actual value — 
one half of the charge being for the Jashion of the thing ; 
with patent lace, positively manufactured from concentra- 
ted spider's webs; withbargains of silks and shawls, which 
it would have been madness in her to miss, as they were 
selling inconceivably under prime cost ; and with gloves 
and ribbands, selling for more than their value to the patriotic 
English, because they were warranted French! 

It is delightful to hear English men and women talk of 
their dear country. There is nothing like Old England, 
say they ; yet, paramount as their love of country appears 
to be, their love of Fixnch frippery is a stronger passion! 
They will lament the times, the stagnation of trade, the 
scarcity of money, the ruin of manufacturers, but they will 
wear Parisian productions. It is a comfort, however, to 
know that they are often deceived, and benefit their suffer- 
ing countrymen without knowing it, — as lace, silks, and 
gloves have frequently been exported from this country, 
and sold to English women on the coast of France as 
genuine French articles. How little does Mrs. Alderman 
Popkins dream, M-hen she returns to her residence in 
Bloomsbury, that her Parisian pelisse is of Spitalfields 
manufacture, and that her French lace veil came originally 
fi om Honiton. 

The Queen of Diamonds patronised every thing, her 
wealth gave her prodigious weight — she was flattered, 
followed, and imitated; and as her equipages dashed 
along the Strand, the admiring pedestrians paused, proud 
of being splashed. 

Husbands and vsives must not be too much together m 



1 f - - 

London ; conjugality isabote to olher people, anrluxoriou?- 
ness is discreditable. To be seen in your wife's chariot 
would be ridiculous , but to be in the chariot of any othei- 
pretty woman would be correct. The King and Queen of 
Hearts, those amicable inseparables, had already begun to 
feel the reforming and purifying inHuence of fashionable 
society. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the 
King and Queen of Diamonds should now be very little 
together. 

His majesty had formed an intimacy with the King of 
Clubs, who, knowing the amount of his principal and 
interest^ introduced hin^ to his sportive associates, and 
taught him to ' * gambol on the green " cloth. 

The Queen was one night at the opera, attended bv 
the Countess of Shropshire and her daughters. The King 
of Diamonds was absent at the Crockery palace, and the 
King of Hearts was lounging behind the scenes, touched 
by the fascinations of a favourite figurante. 

** How full the Opera House is ! " said her Majesty of 
** Hearts ; your countrymen seem very fond of music. " 

** They wish to seem so : would you believe it — not one 
in ten of those you see here know one sentence of what is 
sung; and being ignorant of the language, they peep surrep- 
titiously into the diabolical attempt at a translation of the 
opera, which is sold at the doors. " 

** But the English love good music? " 
** Look at them to-night, — observe their countenances, 
and attend to their applause ; then take the same set of 
people to an English playhouse to-morrow night, let 
somebody sing them a ditty of the true hey diddle diddle 
school, and then, when you see and hear their raptures and 
encores, tell me wh^t sort of music the English best 
understand. " 



" But see how they receive the foreign favourite!" 

** Yes; she came with a foreign reputation, and on 
these occasions the English know how to follow a leader. 
But I am not jesting >vhen I tell you, that had it been pos- 
sible to have played off a hoax on the public — (mind 1 
speak of the mass of metropolitan opera frequenters, for 
of course even here we have some good judges) — well, I 
say, had it been possible^ after puffing, praising, and duly 
anuouncuig the foreign star, to have disguised miss Mar- 
tingale in a flaxen wig, and sent her on the stage as the 
stranger, she would have been accepted as the * real Simcn 
Pure ; ' and the purity of her style and her taste would have 
been the theme of general panegyric !'' 

*' Oh, you slanderer ! you deserve to be exposed to the 
just indignation of the pit. What do we do after the 
opera ?" 

*' Is not your majesty engaged to Lord Apperley's supper 
party ?" 

•* Yes, I promised him : but will it be correct to go V 

The Queen's objections were easily overruled, and to his 
lordship's mansion the party adjourned. 

In the mean time the King of Hearts had been lounging 
behind the scenes, gazing at females, who placed themselves 
before a mirror, surrounded by young men ; and then 
standing upon one leg, raised the other as high as possible, 
and pointing the toe, presented it like a musket ! then ihey 
twirled and whirled, and spun round till their very very 
short petticoats were expanded and ballooned like little 
children's who make what they call cheeses. Among 
the crowd who admiied these evolutions were peers, fiddl- 
ers, music-masters, and all the tribe of Englishmen and 
foreigners, who knew the manager, the chorus singers, or 
the corps de ballot. 



— 149— 

At Lord Apperley's the King of Hearts did not appear : 
but in the absence of his lordship's pet actress, he bestowed 
iiis devoted attention on her majesty. She was kept in 
countenance by an Englishwoman, Mrs. Laxinglon, who, 
finding it most agreeable not to live with her husband, 
treated Mr. Mortimer very much as if she would have been 
well pleased had he possessed that title. 

The queen had gradually been taught to think it all quite 
right and proper for young single men to give midnight 
entertainments, where handsome married women openly 
accepted the undisguised admiration and attentions of those 
who were known to be their inseparables. Are such the 
morals of high life, or am I romancing ! If I speak truths 
'tis scarcely fair for England to vaunt of her puiity, and 
to point the finger of scorn at the dark-eyed Italian and her 
devoted cicesbeo. 

Against manners so free, and morals so lax, the shafts 
of satire ought to be pointed : but instead of detailing the 
nauseous particulars of such scenes, the novelist would do 
well briefly to denounce them. There are many, very 
many, who shrink from such contamination, however it 
may be sanctioned by rank or by fashion ; and he who 
points to the danger may chance to remind the unwary 
that a bad example may^ to an inexperienced eye, appear a 
brilliant one ! 

** Who is that?" inquired her Majesty of Hearts, in a 
whisper to Lord yVpperley, directing his attention to a 
fashionable looking girl, who was silently sitting beside 
an old lady. 

** One of the most charming women in town, exceeding 
pleasant, and very pretty." 

'* She is pretty certainly, but wants animation. I hayc 



— i5o — 

seen her address several ladies with the most dull unvary- 
ing countenance possible." 

*' Decide not too hastily. There ! she ^is now speaking 
to Lord Lawrence, is she inanimate ?" 

'* Heavens, what a change! a spark has kindled the 
pile !" 

*' The fact is," said Lord Apperley, **she is a gentleman's 
woman." 

** What a phrase!" 
'•^ * * Surely you have often heard of a ladies' man ! Why 
then set your face against a gentleman's woman? 1 assure 
you there are many such ; girls, who with girls are silent 
and insipid, who speak languidly, curl the lip illnaturediy, 
and smile sarcastically ; but with men they are all life, 
laugh, spirit, animation ! Look at her, is she not a perfect 
gentleman's woman ?" 
. *' Who are those who have just entered the room ?" 

** The Miss Shakes, — there are three of them. They 
are 5<?m/-professional people, that is to say, they sing 
themselves into circles, in which they would never move 
if it were not for their voices. They are girls of tone^ 
and give themselves as many oirs as if their station in so- 
ciety were natural^ whereas it is all falaetlo. They are 
to sing at the duchess's dejeune to-morrow. Your majesty 
>vill be there ?" 

Every possible arrangement had been made to render 
the duchess's dejeune complete : a person had contracted to 
water the roads, between Laburnum \illa and London, 
that her grace's guests might not be tormented with dust ; 
for doing which a very large sum was paid in hand. But 
the dawn was overcast, the morning lowered, and as it 
raiiied incessantly from daylight till noon, the contractor's 



— 1 J i — 

watering-pot on wheels had a sinecure. The day ijien 
cleared, and the sun for a wonder actually condescended to 
shine upon a party of pleasure! 

So capricious is our climate, that public breakfasts, and 
other inland festivities, too often turn out to be involuntary 
legattas. But now all was sunshine and blue sky. Open 
carriages rolled along the road , and parasols were expanded 
over delicate hats, and far more delicate complexions. 

The lady of Laburnum \illa received her guests on a 
beautiful lawn, surrounded with gay pavilions and milk- 
white tents. 

In an elevated marquee, a table was spread for the royal 
party; but the Queen of Hearts was exploring the 
shrubberies with her now devoted attendant Lord Apperley. 

*' What a fairy scene !" she exclaimed. 

'* It is a delightful party! the arrangements are so 
complete." 

'' Complete indeed! About a hundred yards from the 
park gate are six travelling chariots and four ; the postilions 
are mounted — are ordered to be ready at a moment's 
-warning to take the north road ; and the horses are already 
paid for by our liberal hostess, the first slage to Gretna 
Green." 

*' Gretna Green ! where is that?" 

** A village in Scotland, where people are married by 
a blacksmith. When a young lady wishes to unite herself 
to a lover, who is disapproved by her parents, she may set 
off with him, travel day and night, and be made his wife 
without benefit of clergy." 

** And is she received into society when she comes 
back again ?" 

** Oh dear, yes; the disobedient daughter cannot be 



whipped as a married woman. She Is remarried at St, 
George's Church, Hanover Square ( which remarriage hy 
the hy proves that the first mock ceremony went for 
nothing); and she is considered just as proper a person as 
if she had never volunteered to he a young man's travelling 
companion." 

*' But surely such events are of rare occurrence! I was 
told, hefore 1 came to England, that English society was 
most moral — that it was strict,even to a fault ! — that English 
women were all reserve, modesty, and propriety — the girls 
pure, and the wives faithful! Yet now you icU me that 
girls, when thwarted hy their parents in some romantic 
attachment, travel post iete a tele with the lover in a chaise, 
with a man and a maid in ihe rumhle hehind, to he make 
lelievc married hy a tinkering fellow, who does his work 
so indifierently that they must needs he married over 
again, that in point of law they may he married at all ! 
Then your wives, look around you, are they faithful ? Is 
Mrs. Laxington what she ought to be ? Am I what I was 
before I came to England ? Either England never de- 
served its good name, or it must have been strangely con- 
taminated." 

It was peculiarly pathetic to hear the Queen of Hearts 
talk thus : she leaned on the arm of her noble companion, 
and sighed deeply, — the yery heart of Hearts seemed break- 
ing. She looked towards the group of ballet dancers, and 
there she beheld the partner of her throne gazing fondly 
en his favourite figurante, who evidently pointed her toe 
at his aifections : the Queen sighed, and suffered Lord Ap- 
perley to lead her from the crowded lawn. 

The Duchess of Dogington, the fair foundress of the 
feast, was one of those "stars in the hemisphere of 



-i53- 

fashion," who love to illuminate the pages of the Morning 
Post with elaborate details of their parties ; describing * 'the 
rooms" that are "thrown open" — "the exotics" that are 
"tastefully arranged in recesses" — the ormolu lustres that 
are "brilliantly illuminated" — "the servants" that are 
dressed all in their best — "the refreshments that are furnish- 
ed by Jarrin, or Gunter," or somebody else — "the qua- 
drilles that commence the evening, and the waltzes that 
finish it ;" and then the "rosy fingered Aurora" that peeps 
through the casements, and sends home the guests "highly 
delighted M'ith the urbanity of their accomplished hostess." 
But above all she was delighted in seeing a long list headed 
with these words, "among the company present were"— 
and then her heart palpitated as she read, "royal high- 
nesses, dukes, duchesses, marquisses, marchionesses, earls, 
countesses, viscounts, viscountesses ;" till, glancing over 
the "lords and ladies," she was prepared to endure the 
comparatively small catalogue of honourable misters and 
mistresses. 

The distinguished visitors now thronged round the Du- 
chess to take leave, and to thank her for her ' 'very delight- 
ful party;" they then turned their backs, entered their 
carriages, and as they drove towards Town, unanimously 
agreed that it had been "a very 5050 entertainment." 

How unstable is the position which every great man 
holds in the public estimation ! What is popular to-day, 
is unpopular to-morrow ; and the person who yesterday 
was deemed "an excellent good sort of man, wdihout the 
talents requisite for public life," to-day may be numerated 
among the "rising geniuses, from whom great national ad- 
vantages may be expected." This was very fortunate for 
the Earl of Shropshire. 



^i5v 



Great polllical changes took place just ai the period of 
which I am writing. There appeared to have been great 
shuffling among leading men ; the King came to the reso- 
lution of cutting the pack, and honours that had been dealt 
out with a lavish hand, were revoked on account of a sus- 
picion that odd tricks had been managed in secret. 

It now became difficult for the Cabinet to know how 
to play their cards ; the best hand at the board seemed puz- 
zled; the royal visitors, court cards, were forgotten; odds 
were ten to one against the existing state of things lasting 
a week ; the health of opposition members was publicly 
drank with three times three ; the House of Commons was 
at sixes and seoens ; every trait in the premier's character 
was cavilled at ; and the deuce of the matter was, that he 
appeared to be within an ace of incurring his sovereign's 
displeasure. The aristocracy marked the progress of the 
game in silence, and tradesmen trembled over their counters. 
This state of things could not last long, the ministry was 
changed ; those who had been up, up, up, were ordered to 
go down, down, down ; one or two, who foresaw the com- 
ing change, avoided dismissal, by resigning without resigna-' 
tion ; the parliament was dissolved^ and the prospects of 
men in power melted into air. 

Resignation, under such circumstances, is hardly to 
be expected ; the place may be resigned, but he who held 
it may not be so ; and those who walk out of office some- 
times show, by the longing lingering looks they cast be- 
hind them, how great was their penchant for their pension. 
The Gazette announced, among many other new ar- 
rangements, that the Earl of Shropshire had been appointed 
keeper of the privy key, with a salary adequate to maintain 
the dignity of the office. The charge was a great one. 



— 155 — 

and the Earl, from a mere passive and ratheruninteresting 
individual, became a thorough man of business; the duties 
of his office engrossed all his thoughts, and his seat in the 
house was never vacant. 

Alas ! if it be tiue that **evil communications corrupt 
good manners,''^ how sure is the corruption of good morals 
when they have been unfortunately associated with evil ! 

The Queen of Hearts was once the purest, as well as 
the fairest flower in her royal husband's dominions ; he had 
been her first love, and even after marriage, so lasting, so 
unfashionable was their affection, that it became proverbial, 
and yoimg lovers used to say, "Oh, may our union prove 
like the union of Hearts!" Throwing aside her crown, her 
sceptre, and her ermine robe, often would she busy herself 
in domestic occupations, and never was more happy than 
when preparing some dainty dish with her own hands, 
** to set before the King" So celebrated was s.he for her 
unaffected relish of these homely pursuits, that even in our 
o%vn country she became the chosen theme of the bard, 
and her name was murmured by the lips of the virtuous : 

** The Queen of Hearts 
She made some tar.s !'* 

In her own country she was idolized, and when her sub- 
jects heard of the splendour of other courts, they said 
truly that the Queen of Diamonds could not be compared 
to their own sweet Queen and her paste. 

In an unlucky hour she came with her husband to En- 
gland ; she was involved in the luxuries, the laxities, the 
dissipation of the metropolis. Lord Apperly made him- 
self agreeable, the breath of flattery inflated her imagina- 
tion, and the puffs of the past were forgotten* 



The King of Hearts pirouetted with his paramour, until 
at length they chased io the continent ; this was a fatal blow 
to the wavering rectitude of his Queen, and very shortly 
afte wards she was walking on the chain pier at Brighton, 
and was called Lady Apperly. 

** ^^ hat's in a name ?" says Shakspeare. Alas ! no one 
so feelingly asks that question as the female, who, having 
forfeited her husband's name, assumes that of her lover : 
though he may be kind, attentive, and respectful to her, 
and treat her as if she were a wife, she must endure a secret 
consciousness that she is treated without ceremony. 

The king sued for a divorce, the queen recriminated ; 
and the very barristers retained on either side were heard 
to admit, that if the plaintiff and defendant were to be 
shaken in one of their own blue bags, it was a chance 
which would fall out first. 

The King of Hearts is returned to his own dominions; 
those who know him best, think him much broken. Lord 
Apperly is now the devoted admirer of Miss Martingale, 
and the poor frail one, once Queen of Hearts, being obliged 
to exert her talents to earn an honest livelihood, is about 
to be the rival of Jarrin, Grange, and Gunter : under the 
name of Madame Palpitini she is preparing to open a Ma- 
gasin de bonbons. 

Her brilliant and brief career in London seems almost 
to be forgotten, or if it be remembered, it is as a warning ; 
and now, in all matrimonial connexions, no one ever has 
the bad taste to mention the word Heart. 

Of the King and Queen of Diamonds, 1 have little to say : 
engaged in all the speculative bubbles of the day, addicted 
to gambling, and extravagant beyond description, their 
private purses were soon exhausted, the public service 



money was wasted, the jewels of the crown were pawned, 
and their majesties became insolvent ! This produced a 
general panic ; tradesmen, from the city, winged their 
way to the palace, pecked at them with their long^Jjills^ and 
fearing they were already too late, tremblingly exclaimed, 
'* 'Twere well they were dunned quickly." Their majes- 
ties, however, contrived to escape ; and all that I can now 
say respecting them, is, that when last heard of, they were 
at Van Diemen's Land. 

The King of Clubs abdicated the throne of his fathers, 
and declared that his true empire was in England ; still 
under a feigned name he haunts St. James Street. 

The King of Spades, after contributing largely to the 
Thames Tunnel, has planned one of much greater magni- 
tude, which is to connect Dover with Calais by a subma- 
rine communication ; he is at present engaged in the super- 
intendence of Mexican mines. 

I now drop my pen, with the conviction that historians 
will do justice to those at whose lives I have ventured to 
take one hasty glance. 



i:)v 



FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES, 

No. 1. 
Scene. — The Family Mansion, 

Mil., Mivs. AisD Miss Lokg. 

Miss Long. 

Not go to Town this Spring, Papa ! 

Mamma ! not go to Town ! 
I never knew you so unkind, 

You chill me with that frown : 
My sweet Mamma, indulge your pet, 

Entreat Papa to go — 
Ah ! now I see youVe weeping too, 

We shall succeed, I know. 

Mrs, Long. 

Alas ! my child, 1 Ve done my best. 

And argued all day long, 
But men are always obstinate, 

Especially when wrong. 
'Tis for my girl I urge the trip, 

Not for myself, alas ! 
But when I married had I known 

....No matter — let thai pass! 

Mi\ Long. 

My dear, you know that I abhor 

These silly discontents ; 
YouVe quite absurd ; why don't you make 

The people pay their rents P 



— 59- 

I can't afford to take a house — 
—Nay, don't put on that sneer ; 

For once be happy where you are, 
We'll go to Town next year. 
Miss Long. 

Next year, Papa ! next year, Mamma ! 

You know I 'm thu-ty-two, 
(I call myself but twenty-six, 

So this is entre nous ; ) 
Next year I shall be thirty-three, 

I Ve not a day to lose, 
Oh ! let us go to Town at once, 

I 'm lost if you refuse. 

Mrs. Long. 

Your conduct, Sir, is most absurd, 

We went last year in June, 
But Fanny had not a fair chance, 

You took us home so soon : 
Sir Charles was evidently struck, 

1 'm sure he would have popp'd^ 
But then he saw no more of us. 

And so the matter dropt. 

Mr. Long. 

For sixteen springs to Town she went, 

"When Town began to fill. 
And sixteen summers she return'd, 

A flirting spinster still ! 
And now the times are very bad. 

And tenants in arrear. 
Dear love ! I really can't afford 

To go to Town this year. 



Mrs, Long, 

Bear love, indeed ! I ask you, Sir, 

Has any one man got 
One single sixpence he can spare ? 

I answer : he has not. 
Yet in Haut ton arrivals, still 

I see each neighbour's name ; 
\i other paupers go to town, 

Why can't we do the same? 

Miss Long, 
Does not the Opera contain . 

^ Its customary squeeze ? - 

Have not the groves of Kensington 

Gay groups beneath the trees ? 
At Almack's, happy radiant eyes 

Outshine the chandeliers ; 
And when I think of dear Hyde Park, 
— 1 can't restrain my tears. 

Mrs, Long, 
Of course, my dear ! you stay with us ? 

Mr. Long, 
Why no, my love ! not so, 
My duties Parliamentary 
Force me, alas ! to go. 

Mrs, Long, 
You can't afford a house in Town ? 

Mr, Long. 

No, sweetest ! there's the rub ; 
But I shall sleep at Batt's, you know, 
And dine, love, at the Club. 



Mrs. Long. 
Tbe Club ! I hate that odious word, 

The bane of wedded life ; 
Oh ! well the roving husband fares, 

Biit chops may serve the wife ! 
And then the thing's a vile excuse, 

"Which we must take perforce ; 
"Where have you been this afternoon?" 

—' 'Oh!— at— the Club,"— of course ! 
Miss Long. 
I hate them all ! but I abhor 

The Athenaeum most ; 
They ask the Ladies Wednesday-nights ! 

— 'Tis all a braggart boast : 
To show the gilt and or molu 

Each eager member strives, 
And seems to say, "Snug quarters these- 

What can we want with wives ?" 

Mrs. Long. 
Come, dearest Fanny ! dry your eyes, 

A leetle rouge put on ; 
I '11 order you a sweet chapeau 

From Maradan Carson. 
The Races and the Archeries 

Will very soon be here ; 
Cheer up, my love! you shan't be vex'd, 

We '11 go to Town next year. 



II 



FASHIOAABLE ECLOGUES, 

No. II. 
Scene. — Junior United Service Club. 

Captain Biggs and Lieutenant Wilkins. 

Cmptain. 
CoMKS, Charles ! another glass^ my boy ! 

I've gain'd my end, my point is carried; 
One bumper more to wish me joy — 

When next we meet I shall be married ; 
I knew you'd stare — but can you guess 

W^ho is the object of my passion ? 
Oh ! she's the pink of loveliness, 

The very paragon of fashion ! 

Nay, do not try — you '11 guess in vain— 

And yet, upon consideration, 
I own the case is pretty plain. 

You must have noticed the flirtation. 
'Tis Fanny Miles ! the reigning belle ! 

The all-accomplish'd, pretty Fanny ! 
You must confess I've managed well, 

To wdn a prize sought by so many. 
Lieutenant. 
lam surprised, I must allow, 

I thought the girl was too capricious. 
Captain, 
Nay, nay, she never loved till now. 
Lieutenant. 

AYell'-but the mother's so ambitious, 



She will make up to Earls and Dukes, 

And now and then is disconcerted 
By chilling slights, and such rebukes 

As glasses raised, or eyes averted. 

Captain. 

That may be over-anxious zeal, 

To elevate her only daughter ; 
You cannot feel as mothers feel. 

Lieutenant. 
No — but the girl — you're sure youVe caught her? 
You think she loves you ? 

Captain. 

Think she loves ! 
How can you ask so cold a question. 
Her pallid cheek her passion proves — 

Lieutenant. 
Pooh I that may all be indigestion ! 

Captain. 
Oh ! do not jest — she doats on me, 
There ne^er was woman so devoted. 

Lieutenant. 
Since she came out — stop — let me see, — 

On one -two — three — four — five she's daated. 
Her dotage may pass off. 

Captain. 

\ ou wrong 
The kindest of all earthly creatures ! 
Did frailty ever yet belong 

To such a set of faultless features ! 



-1 64- 

Don't smiie, for I '11 convince you yet, 

A patient listener entreating, 
I '11 say hoiv, ivkeriy and where we met, 
And all that happen'd at the meeting. 
It was at Almack's ; she had got 

One ticket, and she begg'd another j 
But Lady C. declared she'd not 

For worlds admit the humdrum mother. 
Lieutenant, 
And yet the daughter went ! 
Cnpiain. 

Oh yes ! — 
You know — that is — what should prevent her ? 

Lieutenant. 
If 'gainst my parent, I confess, 

A door were shut, Vd scorn to enter. 

Captain. 
One ticket came — how could ii please 

Maternal feelings not to use it ? 
A ticket for the Duke of D.'s — 

Or even Almack's — who'd refuse it? 
Lieutenant. 
Are girls so mean ! Well , well — proceed. 

She went, it seems — and there you met her ? 
Captain. 
We met — we waltzed — and we agreed 

To met again — could I forget her ? 
I call'd next day, and Mr. Miles, 

And Mrs. Miles, seem'd charm'd to know me. 
Contributing with many smiles 

Each kind attention they could show me : 



— i65— 

And I was ask'd to dhie and sup, 

And cards for balls were never wanting ; 
The carriage came and took me up — 

We went together, t'was enchanting ! 
I saw at once it was their aun 

That she and I should be united, 
For every morning when I came 

To something gay I was invited. 

In purchases, she sought my taste — 

Where 'er we went, 'twas / escorted-— 
In gallopades, / held her waist — 

In morning walks, my arm supparted. 
I saw the time was come, in faci, 

When honour bade me to disclose all, 
So in the Opera's last act, 

Last night — I whisper'd a proposal ! 

Lieutenant. 
And what said Fanny ? 

Captain. 

Oh ! she sigh'd— 
And raised her fan a blush to smother ; 
I gently breathed, "Oh! with what pride 

Shall I present you to my brother." 
She started — (timid pet !) the word 

Was premature — the thought a bad one : 
* 'Brother !" she said; ^'I never heard — 
You never mention'd that you had one." 

''My elder brother 1" I exclaim'd— 
She turn'd away — (sweet bashful creature ! 

To hear her future brother named, 

No doubt had crimson'd ev'ry feature.) 



-1 66- 

Then pleading earnestly I stood; 

With half-averted face she heard me, 
And answer'd **Sir — you 're — very — good — " 

But to her "dear mamma" referr'd me. 

I hurried home, and quickly wrote, 
As 'tw ere with wand of necromancer ; 

To Mrs. Miles I sent the note. 

And now I'm waiting for the answer. 

Lieutenant. 
Sit down, my friend — don't lidget so — 

Those men at hreakfast will ohserve us*^ 
Sit down, I heg of you — 

Captain. 
Oh! no, 
1 really can't, I am so nervous. 
Ha ! what is this ! — a note for me ! 

'Tis it! — " No answer" did the man say ? — 
Now them my longing eyes will see 
All that sincere aflection can say ! 
( reads ) 

'* Sir — your ohliging note — high sense — 

My daughter has — of the great honour — 
Of good opinion — preference — " 
There, my boy ! — there — 'tis plain I've won her! 
{reads again') 

" But — you're a younger brother, Sir I 

And I must say — you will excuse it— 
You were to blame to think of her — 
And your proposalT-mu^Y refuse it. 

** I think it best to add at once. 

That in declining your acquintance — " 



-.67- 

ril read no more! — Ob, idiot ! dunce! — 

How shall I bear tbis cruel sentence 1 
^ Lieutenant. 

Be calm, my friend. 

Captain. 
Alas ! till now 
I never knew what blighted hope meant. 
l^ieutenant. 
Be pacified ! 

Captain. 
Ah ! tell me how 
I best may manage an elopement, 
ril seek a druggist — happy plan! 
And I will ask him — 

Lieutenant. 

Pray be placid ! 
Captain. 
For Epsom crystals — but the man 
I'll bribe to give oxalic acid ! 

Lieutenant. 
Nay^ seek amusement — it is right. 
Captain. 
I'll tell my man to load my pistols. 
Lieutenant. 
Come to the opera to-night — 
Captain. 
I'll go and buy the fatal crystals. 
Lieutenant. 
I've got two tickets — 'tis a sin 

To die despairing — come, my crony ! 
Captain. 
Well— to please you — I'll just drop in . 
And take one peep at Taglioni. 



— 168- 

FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES, 

No. III. 

Scene.— T^^ Governor s Study, 

Squire Long and Long Junior. 

Squire Long, 
George, why don't you marry ? — at your time of life 
'Tis a man's bounden duty to look for a wife. 

Zong jun. 
Your will is my law, Sir — but what can I do ? 
The ladies / fix upon never please you ! 

Squire Long, 
No, George — but your father your interest watches, 
I've pointed out three or four excellent matches. 

Long jun. 
Your will is my law, Sir — but then, do you see, 
The ladies you fix upon never please me ! 

Squire Long, 
"Why zounds ! George, you don't go the right way to work, 
Makeup to the Fox-hunting Heiress from York. 

Jjongjun. 
The steeple chase lady! — if after that spec. 
There's less danger of breaking my heart than my neck; 
A brilliant her eye, but a ruby her nose is, 
Horse laughter her smile, and her bloom cabbage roses! 

Squire Long, 
Oh ! George, you provoke me ; but say, have you seen 
The rich and rare private theatrical Queen ? 



— 169— 

Who gets up the plays down at Splashlngton Hall, 
First Manager — Dramatist — Actress-T-and all ! 

Long jun. 
No — not the Blue Lady who rules the Green-roonr, 
Artificial in attitude, simper, and bloom ; 
Who looks up so loving in Romeo's face. 
Returning with gusto each sigh and embrace ; 
To make a proscenium she'd split my saloon, 
And darken it all for rehearsals at noon ; 
'Twould riifile me, Sir — why, 'twould ruffle a saint 
To live amid canvas, gilt paper, and paint. 

Squire Long. 
What think you then, George, of the Baronet's widow, 
The lady of arable, pasture, and meadow? 

I^ong jun. 
Sir Acres's relict ? No, no, my good Sir, 
For ruin lurks under rich widows like her. 
The crops that she cuts, and the beasts that she kills. 
Are all melted down in her milliner's bills ! 
Don't talk of her produce — its merit must stop. 
If I cannot prevent her from ivearing a crop ! 
Her hey-day is endless? she'll add to my trouble. 
And into straw bonnets she'd turn all my stubble ! 

Squire Long. 
Miss Blonda, the beauty — what think you of her? 
The heauty par excellence — can you demur ? 

Long jun. 
The lelle of the public ? Ah ! no. Sir, / seek 
For one with the first bloom of youth on her cheek ; 
The belle of my own individual choice. 
Not hawk'd about yearly by Fashion's shrill voice : 



•^-lyo — 

Exhibited here^ and exhibited there. 

Until, so long used to vulgarity's stare, 

So petted by connaisseur^ sculptor and painter, 

My Ao/n^-admiration could never content her ! 

If I praised her, she'd say, "Oh! I've heard that before; 

Indeed, my Lord So and So used to say more!" 

^ Squire Long, 

W ell, George, you shan't marry a beauty — you shan't — 
There's plain Miss Golightly, who wants a gallant — 
Besides, she writes novels — 

Long jun. 

Ay, when I'm in haste 
To make love to a gorgon, she'' II be to my taste . 
But worse — oh ! a thousand times worse than her looks, 
Is the thought of her putting me into her books ! 
fcWhen wanting a chapter, how pleasant to catch 
Some foible of mine, just to fill up a sketch ! 
Wowvery convenient^ when other themes flag, 
To have jne , just like a wild fox in a bag — 
And then hunt me out, giving all but my name, 
'W bile those who peruse the three volumes exclaim : 
** Oh ! dear me, how like him ! how very absurd ! 
That's meant for her husband, I give you my word ! 
How wrong of her, though ! the resemblance must strike ! 
How very improper ! Good gracious, how like !" 

Squire Long. 
Well, George, there's Miss Wilkins — the lady they laud 
For graces acquired whilst livmg abroad, 
Her singing ! her playing I 

Long jun. 

3^' by no, I confess 



She's too foreign in manner — too foreign in dress ; 

In all that she utters and does, I detect 

A something that tells me she aims at effect ; 

And copying Frenchified airs, after all 

She wears the French fashions that suit a French doll ; 

Her singing is squall ! and her laughter is giggle I 

Her figure all bustle ! her dancing all wriggle ! 

Squire Long. 
But, zounds, you must marry ! At your time of life 
'Tis a man's bounden duty to look for a wife. 

Long jun. 
Your will is my law, Sir— but what can I do ? 
The ladies / fix upon never please you ! 

Squire Long, 
No, George ; but your father your interest watches, 
I've pointed out several excellent matches ! 

Long jung. 
Your will is my law. Sir, but then do you see, 
The ladies you fix upon never please me ! 



FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES, 
No. IV. 

Scene. — Mrs. Long's Boudoir. 

Mrs. and Miss Long. 
Mrs. Long. 
My darling daughter, come to me ; 

AVhy is your cheek so pale ? 
To fond maternal ears reveal 

Your first-love's faltering tale : 
You love young Lord Fitzlackstiver— 

(Incomparable youth ! 
y\ hat fascinating eyes he has ! ) — 

You love him ? — speak the truth. 

Miss Long, 
No — no — I do 720^ love him — no — 

That word is far too tame ; 
A faintness comes all over me 

When others breathe his name. 
I doal upon him — oh, Mamma, 

Don't tell me I am wrong ; 
You know he comes here every day, 

And stays here all day long. 
Mrs. Long. 
He does, my pet, I know he does, 

(Most excellent young man ! ) 
But, dearest, long ere ycu came out 

His daily calls began. 

Miss Long. 
What mean you, Madam ! 



-'73- 

Mrs. Long. 

Miss, I mean 

His Lordship is my friend — 
My Cicesbeo — my — in short, 

Your fancies, child, must end. 
Miss Long. 
Madam ! Mamma ! what can you mean <* 

He's not in love with you ! 
ril go and speak to my Papa — 
Mrs. Long, 

Do — if you dare, love, do ! 
Your father's age, and gout, and bile, 

And half a hundred ills, 
Keep him at home ; I cannot stay 

To make him take his pills. 
And then in public, you must know, 

A man is indispensable : 
(Now listen, child, and dry your eyes — 

I always thought you sensible !) 
x\s for a ball — your father's far 

More fit for hearse and hatchment ; 
And who can blame Platonic love 

And innocent attachment ? 
Miss Long. 
My heart will break ! oh ! 'tis enough 

To plunge me in despair. 
To give up such a nobleman ! 

With such a head of hair ! 
Besides — now don't be angry. Ma — 

When Pa to bed is carried. 
You've never time to talk to me^ 

«— I should like to be married. 



— 174— 

Mrs» Long. 
Like to be married ! so you shall — 

Yes, darling, to be sure — 
\But not to Lord Fitzlack stiver, 

The amiable — but poor ! 
Your husband shall have golden coin 

As countless as sea-sand — 
Yes, child, the Duke Filchesterton 

Has ofFer'd you his hand I 

Miss Long. 
What do you say ? — The Duke! — His Grace I 

— A Duchess ! — can it be ! 
(^-He's sixty-five !) how very odd 

That he should fix on me ! 
— The Duke ! — (he canH have long to live) 

— His Grace ! when will he call ? 
How lucky Lord Fitzlack stiver 

Meant nothing after all ! « 

The Duke ! — he's very, very old— 

But what's that to his wife ! 
You do not care three straws about 

My father's time of life. 
His Grace ! — what gorgeous wedding clothes ! 

What jewels I shall get I 
The diamonds of the family, 

(I'll have them all new set.) 
The Duke ! — he can''t live very long, 

His husky cough is chronic, 
And doubtless I shall findj^a friend 

Exceedingly platonlc. 
You'll tell the Duke I'm flatter'd— pleased : — 

Oh ! stop, Mamma — you'll see, 



-.,5- 

Of course, that all his worldly goods 

Are settled upon me. 
A Duchess ! — only think, Mamma, 

T shall be call'd your Grace ! 
— AVhat had I best be married in, 

M^hite satin or blond lace ? 
Bless me ! how very strange 'twill seem 

To have a spouse on crutches ! 
I long to tell Fitzlackstiver 

That I'm to be a Duchess. 
Poor Fitz ! It 's well I 'm not his wife ; 

It would have made me ill 
To go and make a fuss about 

Some odious butcher's bill. 
It never would have suited me^ 

To hash the boil'd and roast ! 
And ascertain what eggs, and beer, 

And soap, and candles cost ! 
Poor Fitz ! don't let him marry. Ma — 

Oh, apropos of marriage ! 
I must consult him when he calls. 

About my travelling carriage. 
The gout, they say, is apt to kill 

When vital parts it touches ; 
Make haste, Mamma, and tell the Duke, 

That I will be his Duchess. 



-lyb- 



FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES, 

No. V. 
Scene. — Hogsnortom House, 

Mr., Mrs. and Miss Hum. ' 

Oh, winter in Brighton, in Regency-square, 
Oh, winter in Brighton, the Court will be there ! 
'Tis not for myself ihdX 1 ask it — oh! no, 
'Tis for dear papa's health that I'm anxious to go. 

Mrs, Hum, 

My dear, she is right, you should really arrange 
Some party of pleasure — you do want a change ; 
For you just at present this place is too dull. 
Bo winter af Brighton, for Brighton is full. 

Mr, Hum. 
Oh, don't think of moving for my sake, my dear, 
You're really too anxious — I'm very well here. 

Miss Hum. 
"SlVeW ! oh, my dear father! excuse me, you're wroni 
To sport with my feelings — go look at your tongue. 

Mrs, Hum. 
Well I oh, my dear husband, you cannot disguise 
That terrible yellowness under your eyes ! 

Mr, Hum. 
Begone, ye two birds of ill omen ! I see 
Through this sensitive, anxious attention to me. 
I/lam so delicate, why should I hear 
The noise thai the sea makes at this time of year ? 



You^ Miss, and JO?/, Madam, are trying by slfallh 
To coax me to Brighton, i>y talking of health. 
I know what you want, Miss ! and you. Madam, too — 
You want a gay season — yes, both of you do. 

Miss Hum. 
Papa, you're unkind, but I scorn to complain, 
In Hogsnorton House I'm content to remain ; 
I did think the moving might do you some good — 
No matter — my motives are misunderstood. 
But even suppose that I did want a change 
From stupid Hogsnorton, I'm sure it's not strange 
You don't want to see me establish'd in life ! 
fW ho'd come to Hogsnorton to look for a wife f 

Mrs, Hum, 
Don't talk to your father — sweet giil, it's no use, 
He deems my solicitude all an excuse ! 
I 've nursed him, and watch'd him, and now he imputes... 
— No matter — I'm silent, but all men are brutes ! 
He deems me deceitful — you heard what he said — 
He '11 be sorry enough perhaps when I 'm dead ! 

Mr, Hum. 
Maria, don't cry ! Leonora, for shame !— - 
Ask any soul breathing if / am to blame ! 
'At Hogsnorton House there's my leather arm-chair, 
So cozey and snug — (only look at it there !) 
And then there's my cellar, my genuine wine — 
i^Vithout my old sherry I really can't dine : 
This house, too, is snug— and, pray, why should I lighten 
My purse for a gingerbread mansion at Brighton ? 
iWhere, sleepless, you hear the perpetual din 
Of the tide going out, or the tid« coming in. 

12 



-.78- 

Mrs. Hum. 
Nay, dearest, don't say so — the lodging shan't be 
In cne of the terraces facing the sea ; 
You '11 sleep undisturh'd, lov'c, in Regency-square ; 
— And how could you think I'd forget the arm-chair ? 
I plann'd that all nicely, my dear; //"we went, 
It was by the yan to be carefully sent ; 
And then too the wine, love, (how odd you and I 
Should think of the vety same things, by the by ! ) 
Your genuine sherry I meant to have placed 
In hampers— you see, dear, I study your taste. 

Miss Hum. 
And, dearest papa, you and I will walk out, 
(You '11 lean on my arm, and a fig for the gout) ; 
You '11 go to the library every day, 
And read all the papers in such a snug way ; 
And don't you remember the shop on the Steyne ? 
The pastrycook's shop kept by Phillips, 1 mean, 
The shop where you used to eat soup ? 

Mr, Hum. 

Very true, 
I almost can fancy I smell it— can't you ? 

Mrs. Hum. 
Yes, love, so delicious ! And then, too, the chat 
And the whist at Sir Robert's — you don't forget thai7 

Mr. Hum. 
The whist ? oh, that was very pleasant ! 

Mrs. Hum. 

les, very ! — 
Shall Simpson have orders to pack up the sherry T 



— '79— 

Mr. Hum. 
Egad ! — but you 're certain Sir Robert is there ? 

Miss Hum. 
Oh, positive — when shall we pack the arm-chair ? 

Mr. Hum. 
I went there last year by the doctor's advice — 
That mulligatawny is certainly nice — 
The sherry may travel, 'tis true — and the chair- 
But Simpson must pack it with very great care. 
I think it may do me some good — so Til write 
To Parsons to take me a lodging to-night. 

(^Exit Mr. Hum.) 

Mrs. Hum. 
There ! did I not manage him well ? I declare, 
Whilst I live, I shall doat on that darling arm-chair ; 
A lucky idea, was it not ? — and the wine ? 

Miss Hum. 
Yes, mamma ; and the soup w^as a good hit of mine. 

Mrs. Hum. 
And the wUist at Sir Robert's ! the whist and the chat ! 

Miss Hum, 
Sir Robert's in France, mamma — 

Mrs. Hum. 

Never mind that — 
"We 'II vow we expected to meet him, and then 
We '11 soon find out two or three humdrum old men. 

Miss Hum. 
And now, dear mamma, you 're aware that I want 
A bonnet and gown. 



— i8o— 

Mrs. Hum. 

No, Maria, you can't— 
You really can't have a new bonnet, my dear ; 
You Ve worn that so little I gave you last year ; 
Youi' gowns, too, must serve for the present. 

Miss Hum, 

Ah! no— 
You cannot help sending to Carson. 

Mrs, Hum, 

Why so?, 

Miss Hum. 

Oh, really, mamma, though you do not want dress 
To set off jour figure and face, I confess, 
Yet still I did see such a hat and pelisse ! 
They'd suit you exactly, I never shall cease 
To wish that you had them ! Cerulean blue I 
Send for them to please your Maria, pray do. 

Mrs. Hum. 
My amiable daughter ! I cannot refuse 
To send up to Carson— What gown will you choose ? 
I'll order the blue for myself — and I think 
Your bonnet, my darling, had better be pink^ 



LU?fATIC LAYS, 

No. 1. 

'* I must and will an Actress -wed." 

I MUST and will an Actress wed^ 

Shell smile away all shadows ; 
The voice of Love is eloquent 

In green-rooms — ^not green meadows 
Talk not of rural hills and vales, 

They suit my optic sense ill, 
The only scenery I prize 

Is that of Stanfield's pencil ! 

The Earl, my father, storms at me, 

And says it is a queer age, 
iWhen comic first appearances 

At last lead to the Peerage : 
And my maternal Countess vows 

That nothing can console her, 
If I disgrace the family 

By marrying a stroller ! 

But, oh! I'd scorn such prejudice. 

Although 'twere universal. 
For I have been behind the scenes 

At night, and at rehearsal : 
No titled heiress will I ask 

To be my benefactress ; 
I'd rather elevate my wife, 

So I will wed an actress, 



mi 



— 182 — 

Oh, first I burnt for tragic queens, 

My passion scarce is cool yet, 
I teazed each Mrs. Beverley, 

Euphrasia, and Juliet ; 
And if by Belvidera's frowns 

A little disconcerted, 
I flew to Mrs. Haller's side. 

And at the wings I flirted. 

But Colonel Bant, (the gentleman 

Who 's always amateuring,) 
Behind the scenes came every night 

^Wilh language most alluring ; 
And he had such a way with him, 

He won their hearts by magic, 
So I resigned Melpomene, 

And Bant reign'd o'er the Tragic ! 

To Lady Bells and Teazles next 

I turn'd — and Lady Backets, 
3^~ho put their rouge and spirits on 

(As boys put on their jackets) ; 
.Whose smiles, professionally sweet. 

Appear when prompters summon ; 
iW^ho keep, in fact, their bloom for hesty 

[W hile sallow serves for common. 

And then I sigh'd for the soubrettes 

In aprons made with pockets, 
iWho frisk about the stage like squibs, 

And then go off like rockets : 
But at their beck I always found 

Some beauteous Bob or Billy, 
^^Ith whom ihey lightly tript away, 

And left mc looking silly. 



-186- 

To prima donnas then I turn'd, 

The Pollys and Mandanes ; 
Made love to ahe Don Carloses, 

And female Don Giovannis ! 
But soon came one with higher notes— 

They left me — allegretto ! 
They sought him-^volii suhito I 

Forsaking me— falsetto ! 

But now a love for figurants 

Within my bosom rankles, 
I doat upon extended arms, 

And sigh for well-turn'd ankles : 
Enchanting girls ! how dark their hair ! 

How white and red their skin is ! 
I love them all — though wicked wits 

May call them * 'spinning Jennies." 

In Peter Wilkins I have sigh'd 

For sylph-like forms, whose trade is 
To hang supended by the waist^ 

And act high-flying ladies : 
The Country Curate may abuse 

My loves because they lack dress, 
Hell choose a wife from private life , — 

But I will wed an actress. 






-i84- 

LUIXATIC LAYS, 

No. II. 

" I want to go upon the stage. " 

I v\^AKT to go upon the stage 

And wear a wig and feathers ; 
I enyy each tragedian 

The laurels that he gathers : 
I'm sure that I could give effect 

To Richard's ruthful menace ; 
Oh would that 1 might hlack my face, 

And act the Moor of ^ enice ! 

My father talks of what he calls 

Respectable employments, 
Condemning as Tom-fooleries 

My Thespian enjoyments : 
He calls me mouthing mountebank, 

And ranting rogue, and stroller ; 
And not a servant in the house 

Compassionates my dolor ! 

One day I stole a pot of rouge, 

And Aunt Jane's Sunday spencer— 
(She left me nothing in her will — 

How could I so incense her !) 
I flew to Cowes, where in a barn 

I found some kindred spirits, 
And soon I made the manager 

Appreciate my merits. 



— 185— 

He did announce me as a star — 

(He well knew what a siar meant — ) 
And T enacted Romeo 

In Aunt Jane's pink silk garment : 
My Juliet was a charming girl, 

A most delicious creature ! 
With eyes — such eyes ! and oh ! her nose — 

I idolised the feature ! 

Pink silk, with frogs, was my costume, 

And her's was muslin spangled, 
And when the Nurse callM her away, 

I wished she had been strangled. 
.When we lay corpses side by side, 

A gentle squeeze she gave me, 
And whisper'd, *'"Wilt thou be my love?"- 

I sigh'd, **Ay, if thou'lt have me!" 

But fathers they have flinty hearts, 

Biy angry father found me — 
Oh horrid night ! methinks I see 

Scene shiflers grinning round me ! 
Alas ! the scene they shifted not — 

The very pit seems full yet — 
I cannot tell the tragedy — 

He tore me from my Juliet ! 

And since that mauspicious night 

The stage Fve never entered ; 
In life's obscure realides 

My father's thoughts are centred. 
Misguided man ! beneath his roof 

Now pines a slighted Roscius, 
Whose manhood pants to realise 

i oath's promises precocious. 



In tragic moods, I push my wig 

High up upon my forehead, 
I cork my eye-hrows, and assume 

A stare that's very horrid : 
I roar a word or two, and then 

Speak low, you scarce can hear me— 
And then I thump my breast — ye gods I 

At Drury how you'd cheer me ! 

Genteelly comic I can be, 

And farcically sprightly, 
I'm excellent in Pantomime, 

In Ballet parts dance lightly : 
,Were Mr. Lee, the new lessee, 

Aware of such a treasure, 
If I ask'd fifty pounds a night, 

He'd give them me with pleasure. 



LUNATIC LAYS, 

No. III. 

I must have music in my soul. 

I must have music in my soul, 

Though envious tongues deny it 
I'm very certain I've a voice, 

And spite of fate I'll try it : 
I'll practice morning, noon, and night, 

I'll buy the best instruction, 
I will abjure all solid food, 

If singers live by suction. 

I'll hold a wo/^— 'till you shall think 

That, very like a miser, 
I never mean to change that note. 

But you shall find I'm wiser : 
For you may fix on any key, 

Then name of notes one dozen, 
My spendthrift chest shall soon pour forth 

The treasijre you have chosen. 

At present up and down the scale 

I run with zeal unwearied, 
Nor deviate into an air 

Till minor points are carried : 
tAVhen morning dawns, my task begins, 

At midnight hour it endeth, 
(Except those tasty intervals 

That man in eating spendeth.) 



— 188— 

But genius and the world are foes ! — 

I have a hateful neighbour, 
A scientific man, forsooth ! 

I scorn his plodding labour ! 
He sends me messages, and says 

My noise distracts his study- 
ill/ singing, noise I poor wretch, he tnovrs 

Nought about taste — ^how should he ! 

Two other neighbours — invalids, 

Who live on slops and dozing, 
Complain my singing wakes them up 

Just when their eyes are closing ! 
I never smg till Jii>e o'clock ! 

As if that could disturb them ! 
I '11 let my talests take their course, 

And scorn those who would curb them. 

One^ (much too cold to estimate. 

My talents in their true sense,) 
Did — oh it cuts me to the soul ! — 

Indite me as a nuisance ! 
I shook — but 'twas a vocal shake, 

Not one from terror springing, 
No judge could venture to assert 

I 'm no great shakes at singing. 

Once came a crowd, a menial crowd, 

Crying, *' There must be murder ! 
W e heard a female's horrid screams — 

Yes, hereabouts we heard her !" 
They climb'd they wall ! — they forced the door !- 

The ragamuffin sorte ! 
TJiey found me sitting all alone, 

And singing rather fotle ! 



-.89- 

I '11 sing the air that Sontag sings, 

Rode's air with variations, 
My throat shall he the thoroughfare 

For all the new inflations : 
All styles ril master — I'll outgrow] 

The Trombone when I go lowl 
And when in all^ Velluti's self 

Shan't sing so high a solo ! 



— -1 9° — 
LUNATIC LAYS, 

No IV. 

*' Adieu, my Moustachios ! farewell to my^Tipl" 

Adieu my moustachios ! farewell to my tip ! 
Lost, lost is the pride of my chin and my lip I 
His Majesty wills it, like Samson I'm cropt, 
And the killing career of Adonis is stopt ! 
The razors are ruthless! my honours they nip ! 
Adieu, my moustachios ! farewell to my tip ! 

Alas ! what avails the loud clank of my spurs, 
What signify tassels, and feathers, and furs ! 
The padding ahove that the waist may look slim! 
The trowsers compress'd to exhibit the limb ! 
My form I no longer exulting equip — 
Adieu, my moustachios ! farewell to my tip ! 

I know they deride a Commander who stoops 
To cull foreign fashions to deck British troops ; 
But surely the biggest look rather more big 
In moustachios and tip — like a judge in his wig! 
1 know / look small with my sword on my hip,— 
Adieu, my moustachios ! farewell to my tip I 

When Laura last saw me, she own'd that the world 
Contained no moustachios so charmingly curl'd ; 
She thought my head ybm^w, and unlike the skull 
Of the money-bag, mercantile fellow, John Bull : 
But now she will call me ' ' contemptible rip ! " 
— Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip! 

I Avcnt to the levee bolh pensive and pale — 
I fell like a puppy-dog robb'd of his tail! 



The Duke eyed me coldly when notice I craved, 
— Ah ! would he had seen me before I was shaved I 
And as I kissM hands, Fm afraid 1 let slip 
*' Adieu, my moustachios ! farewell to my tip I " 

Ah ! at a mess dinner, how graceful to dip 
My napkin, and wipe off the mess from my lip ! 
The hair that grew on it was steep'd in each dish, 
And nourished by gravy — soup — sauces of fish^- 
They are gone — and my claret I pensively sip, — 
Adieu, my moustachios ! farewell to my tip ! 

They were red — and I dyed them — and noa-> at the stain 
Which remains on the skin I scrub daily — in vain ! 
The hair is shaved off, but a something is seen 
Which \fear may be thought to look rather unclean 
I hope it don't look like a chimney-sweep's lip — 
Adieu, my moustachios ! farewell to my tip ! 

My principal reason, I frankly confess, " 
For being a soldier at all — was the dress ; 
The line on my lip, and the dot on my chin, 
Became me — the change is a horrid take in — 
I might just as well now have gone on board ship. 
Adieu, my moustachios ! farewell to my tip ! 

/ know that they deem it unmanly to w eep 
So into half-pay I'll despondingly creep! 
The star of my beauty is lost in eclipse! 
I'll sit in reclusion and sigh for hair-lips ! 
The tears down my nose now incessantly drip — 
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip! 



— 19- — 

LUNATIC LAYS, 

N« V. 

THE LAST MAN ! 

Hehold the last man of the season. 

Left pacing the Park all alone — 
He'll blush if you ask him the reason 

W hy he with the rest is not gone ; 
He'll see you with shame and with sorrow, 

He'll smile with affected delight, 
He'll swear he leaves London to-morrow, 

And only came to it last night. 

He'll tell you that Nobles select him 

To cheer their romantic retreats, 
That friends in all quarters expect him 

To stay at their elegant seats. 
Invited by all, then — how can he 

Know which he should favour, or shunf 
He's sure of offending so many, 

By paying a visit to one. 

He'll say that the Yacht-Club implore him 

To cruise in their exquisite ships, 
That Ladies of Fashion quite bore him 

To join them in wandering trips : 
That Stewards of all Races entreat him 

To go to them ; — what can he do ? — 
How odd you should happen to meet him ! — 

So strange, as — he's just passing through. 



— ifj3 — 

In town in the month of September 

We find neither riches, nor rank ; 
In vain we look out for a Menihcr 

To give us a nod, or a frank : 
The Citizens' Ladies to cure all 

Their illnesses dip in the sea, 
The Duchesses doing the rwal^ 

Sit under a very great tree. 

Each knocker in silence reposes. 

In every mansion you'll find 
One dirty old woman who dozes, 

Or peeps through the dining-room blinds 
The chamber where graces once hovered 

Now seems the dim dwelling of ghosts, 
The curtains are notably covered 

W^ith remnants of Heralds and Posts. 

The GuNTER (sweet man ! ) is inhaling 

^YQsh puffs of the pure ocean gale, 
And GrakjiE has now taken to sailingj 

Since sweets cease to find any sale; 
Great Weippert is seizing the bridle, 

He gallopes to countryfied balls, 
And blacking-man Warren is idle. 

'Tis useless to chalk the dead walls; 

Thy sights, Colosseum, are lonely. 

There's no one to see' em at all ; 
Altho' of St.-Paul's, you've the only 

True rusty original ball. 
No Belles in their tippets call'd Boas, 

No Beaux drive their cabs in the Park, 
And piqued are the monkeys, in Noah's 

Complete Zoological ark ! 



—94- 

Then hence 1 thou last man of the season, 

Lest Fashion tlic outrage should Blah ; 
Shrink back, as if guilty of treason, 

V^^ithin the dark depths of thy cab. 
If money be wanting — go borrow ; 

Kemain — and thy character's lost! 
Go, print thy departure to-morrow, 

*' Sir Linger, fromLong'^, for the Coast. " 



LUNATIC LAYS, 

Na VL 



THE LAST WOMAN ! 



I see him not ! the Man is gone ! 

The Man Avho watched my carriage ! 
Oh! ^Yhile I lingei 'd last but one. 

There still seem'd hopes of marriage : 
He too is off ! alone i pine, 

A sad condition mine is, 
'Tis very odd that one so fme. 

Should now prove Fashion's ^m'^/ 

The desert Park ! there is no show 

Of Dames in silks that rustle ;, 
I look upon no titled Beau ! 

JSo beauty! and no bustle ! 
Yet madly still that Park I seek, 

('Twere far more wise to shun it.) 
Deep rouge upon my maiden cheek, 

Dcf^^ blonde upon my bonnet ! 



— 95^ 

My foot attracts not as I go 

One glance unto my liking ; 
Though on my stockings, white as snowy 

The coloured clocks are striking! 
Spiing flow'rs are gone, and Autumn leaves 

Will strew my path hereafter, 
I laugh not-^even in my sleeves^ 

Though they seem made for laughter. 

The streets are thin, the squares are dull,- 

The crowded hubbub ceases. 
And nothing now can be made juJU 

(But dresses and pelisses.) 
Oh, Art! thine adventitious aid 

Is vain, — I ne^er approach man ^ 
I'm seen by no one but my maid, 

My pretty page, and coachman! 

And there's another bore ! my Page 

Is grdvoing out of season ; 
He's such a gawky for his age, 

I can't think \Vhat's the reason. 
I knew^ 'twas comme il faut in green 

The stripling to accoutre ; 
Rut now, though he's but just fifteen. 

He looks like a Sharpshooter ! 

For scenes where others rove, I fret, 

And then to cheer my own eye, 
A private box of mignonette 

I place on my balcohy : 
Macadam frc^states these pursuits, 

The noise without he trebles ; 
He tears the street up by the roots, 

And pounds it into pebbles ! 



—196— 

To Lekept here so late, I vow, 

In tears of sorro-\v steeps me ; 
The shopkeepers who see me cow 

Are woDdering what keeps me ! 
I must contrive some moving plan, 

Or life 1 cannot drag on ; 
ril send my hat by Pickford's van, 

My bonnet by the waggon. 

Winged wardrobes every Lady wants 

To waft her dresses neatly, 
BJy Vapeur crape -with seduisantcs 

Will fill the boot completely: 
The Imperial will hold my slip, 

(My maid shall pack it, poor thing!) 
The Morning Post shall print my trip, 

"MIssCkawl, from BATT6',to Worthing,'^ 



— '97— 

LUNATIC LAYS, 
No. VII. 

BIOGRAI^Y. 

So mother Hubbard's clog's deceased, 

That Spaniel of repute ! 
Be mine the mournful task to write 

The memoirs of the brute. 
O'er all the authors of the day 

Biographers prevail, 
I'll ' ^ point a moraP'' and * 'adorn" 

That little dead dog's ''tale/' 

I'll sift the Hubbard family 

For anecdotes canine, 
The most minute particulars, 

Shall very soon be mine. 
I'll bore the mournful Dame herself 

W^ith questions most abrupt, 
And first I'll learn /^o«', when, and where 

His canine K^pther pupp'd. 

His puppyism I will trace 

On Hubbard's apron rock'd, 
Describing when his tongue was worm'dj 

And how his ears were dock'd. 
His placid temper 1 will paiot 

And his J/.slemper too, 
And all his little snappish tricks 

The Piblic eye shall ricvv. 



a 



• I 



The Dame and He were Friends, 'tis thought, 

She gave him bones and milk ; 
And pattingly her hand amooth'd down 

His coat as soft as silk. 
But what of that ?— The world shall know 

That he hath snarl'd at her^ 
And that the Dame hath kick'd the Dog, 

And caird him '*nasty cur- 1" 

His Love for her^ was cupboard Love, 

The fawning which proclaims 
An instinct partiality 

For dogs-meat — more than Dames ! 
Alas ! 'twas not V affaire 4u coeur, 

An ingrate was the Pup ; 
Though oft his mistress for his meals 

Hath cut her lit>er up ! 

And oft' she did instruct the Dog, 

Upon his tail to sit, 
And elevate his two fore paws 

And beg a tiny bit : 
She plac'd the dainty on his nose, 

And counted **one"— "two"— * 'three ! '^^ 
And when he leapt and caught the prize 

A happy Dame was she ! 

But I must tell of stolen joys, 

Of milk that hath been miss'd • 
Qf hunted cats, and worried birds j 

I have a grievous list ! 
Of rambles too with female dogs-^ 

Yet — hearing the old scratch— 
The Dame to let the rover in, ^ 

.Would rise, and lift the latch. 



In truth he was a paugbty Dogy 

Of habits very wild, 
He never yet was known to care 

One jot for wife or child : 
His :yvives were countless, each produced 

Nine bantlings at a birth ; 
And some were drpwnM, and 5ome were 

To rot upon the earth ! 

But hold ! is this my dead Dog's tale ^ 

And can I not produce 
For naughtiness a friendly veil ? 

For Folly an excuse ? 
And musl the sage Biogiaphcr 

Of little Dogs and Dames, 
JRecall forgotten injuries, 

Snarls, kicks, and ugly names ? 

The Dog was a sagacious Dog, 

That's all the world need know. 
The Failings of the Quadruped 

Tis not my task to show. 
His quarrels with his kith and kin, 

His puppy tricks when young. 
If these I tell, he'll seem far worse 

Than if I held my tongue | 

Jt shall be so-^my tongue Til hold, 

And tiot my grey goos€ quill ; 
His death is recent, for a whil^ 

Biographers be still ! 
Cotemporaries point at specks, 

But pause a^vhile, and then 
.We jnay be sure Posterity 

■VV ill calmly hold the pen. 



"—200 — 

But now to take away a life 

Each man of letters strives ! ^ 
The undertakers thrive by Deaths I 

Biographers by Lives ! 
O'er new made graves, thro' murky mista 

Of prejudice he jogs ; 
And so it seems Biography 

Is going — to the Dogs ! 



LUNATIC LAYS, 

No. Ylll. 

The first white hat ! 

I met a man in Regent Street, 

A daring man was he ; 
He had a hat upon his head 

As white as while could be ! 
^Twas but the first of March ! — away 

Three hundred yards I ran, 
Then cast a retrospective glance 

At that misguided man ! 

I thought it might be possible 

To do so foul a deed, 
Yet not commit the murd'rous acts 

Of which too oft we read : 
I thought he might have felt distress— 

— Have lov'd — and lov'd in vain — 
And wore that pallid thing, to cool 

'J'he fever of his brain ! 



— 201 — 

Perchance he had no relative- 
No confidential friend — 

To say when summer months begin, 
And those of winter end. 

Perchance he had a wife, who was 
Unto his side a thorn, 

And who had basely thrust him forth 
To brave decorum's scorn ! 

But no ! — a smile was on his cheek ! 

He thought himself the thing ! 
And all unblushingly he wore 

The garniture of spring ! 
'Twas evident the man could not 

Distinguish wrong from right ! 
And cheerfully he walk'd along 

Unseasonably white ! 

Then unperceiv'd I followed him, 

Clandestinely i tried 
To ascertain in what strange spot 

So queer a man could hide : 
.Where he 6v;z//fi? pass his days and nights, 

And breakfast, dine, and sup ! 
And where the peg could be, on which 

He hung that white hat up ! 

He paused at V^^hite's — the while capote 

Made all the members stare ! 
He pass'd the Atheneum Club 

He had no footing there ! 
He stood a Ballot once (alas ! 

There sure was pique in thai) 
Though they admit light headed men, 

They black baU'cl the while hat ! 



jI 



« — 202 



Ar.d on he weiij self satisfied. 

And now and then did stop 
And look into the looking glass 

That lines some trinket shop 1 
And smilingly adjusted it ! 

'Twas that that made me vexl — 
*'lf this is borpe," said 1, ''he'll wear 

*'His nankeen trowsers next !" 

The wretched being I at length 

Compassionately stopt, 
And us'd the most persuasive words 

Entreaty could adopt : 
I said hi^ head was premature — 

I never left his side 
Until he swore most solemnly 

The white hat should he dyed. 



•^2o3 — 

LUi^ATIC LAYS, 

No. IX. 

MY SljXECURp PLACE 

How's this,my Lord Grey^can you mean what you say? 
Abolish all sinecures — pause, my Lord, pray! 
Oh, hear me, my lord, — is this really the case? 
Nay, do not take from me my Sinecure Place ? 

Consider, my income is small for a Peer, 
I'm poor, if you take my odd thousands a year ; 
Consider, I pray you, how ancient my race, 
Its dignity sinks with my Sinecure Place, 

My mansion in town has been lately rebuilt, 
Adorn'd with superb scagliola, and gilc ; 
Pray, how shall I look Mr. Nash in the face, 
If you now put an end to my Sinecme Place ? 

My castle must also be kept in repair, 
One month out of twelve I contrive to be there ; 
One month I devote to the joys of the chase,-^ 
My castle would go with my Sinecure Place ! 

My cottage omee, on the Devonshire coast. 
Must also be sold, if my place should be lost ; _ 
Now, pray, my Lord, do reconsider my case. 
And let me retain my snug Sinecure Place. 

My lady her opera-box must discard ! 
My lady, the beauty — you'll own 'twould be hard— 
My fortune won't pay for her feathers and lace — 
Then leave m«, oh, leave me, my Sinecure Place ! 



■20. 



Economy may be discreet, I dare say, 
Retrenchment is all very well in its way ; 
But there's no occasion for setting your face 
'Gainst my individual Sinecure Place. 

You must^ my Lord Grey, (it is time to be frank,) 
Uphold the importance of persons of rank ; 
The aristocratic look up to your race — ■ 
Support them, and leave me my Sinecure Place. 

If beggarly vagabonds will make a row. 
Be firm, and intimidate, no matter how — 
E'en flourish a sword in each vagabond's face — 
I'll do it myself for my Sinecure Place. 

I'll stipulate ahvays to give you my vote — 
Whatever. yoM dictate Fll utter by rote ; 
Your notions — whaiccrthcy may le — I'll embrace, 
And I'll do any job for my Sinecure; Place. 



— 200 — 

LUNATIC LAYS, 

No. X. 

julvo's SOIREE. 

Once Juno sent out cards ^^at home*^ to her own exclusive circle, 
She knew the leaders of }iigh ton were sure to come at her call ; 
She heav'd a sigh for Weippart's band, but checking her vexation, 
Engaged the music of the spheres as next in estimation. 

The Queen received the kindest gifts from ev'ry friendly neighbour, 
First Bacchus sent a pipe of wine, then Pan a pipe and tabor, 
Diana sent her fullest moon to light the upper regions, 
And Venus sent a brace of Birds — (a pair of Do^es or Pigeons.) 

The evening came, and Juno shone a blaze of Regal beauty ; 
Field Marshal Mars was preengaged on military duty ; 
Three muses came — Mnemosene, the very best of mothers, 
Ne'er took nine daughters out at once, so left at home the others. 

The sister Furies, Boa clad, who thought themselves delightful, 
Declared they \vere quite giieved to see poor Venus look so frightful ; 
The Graces danced a Saraband — Minerva thought them shocking, 
And Momus quiz'd her style of dress, and called her a blue stocking. 

Though not a son of Erin's Isle, yet Jupiter thought proper 
To make a Bull that day ! ('twas while conversing with Europa) ; 
And Echo having caught the tale, did w^ord for word reveal it, 
And Juno tho' she bit her lips pretended not to feel it. 

Supper was laid — as Gunter lays it where the most select are, 
And Jupiter bade Ganymede hand round the oldest nectar; 
Aurma was the first to hint that morning was not far oft ; 
And all the party said "Good day" as Phoebus drove his car off. 



FAULTS Om BOTH SIDES. 



When an elderly geiitleman begins to be a twaddle, \ve 
tall him an ** old woman, " intending any thing rather 
than a compliment by the appellation; yet, after all, old 
women are in very high repute among us ; they are our 
oracles, and their commonest " sayings" become prover- 
bial, while the erudite orations of the Lords of the creation 
pass into oblivion. I am an admirer of old women, but 1 
abominate their sayings. Wh^n once an old woman, has 
•* suid her Say " though sh^ may have said it vulgarly, and 
flippantly, and foolishly, the chances are that her saying 
will be handed down to her children's children. 

I have been the victim of a saying, one too that ( alas ! ) 
is in everybody's mouth, and yet one which, Heaven knows, 
is, in nine cases out often, utterly groundless and vexatious: 
The saying is this : ''There are always faults onboth sides." 
1 do not exaggerate vvhen I declare that, before I was born, 
this saying v*^as my enemy ! I was the first child of a very 
dashing couple, and I suspect that, befbre my mother had 
seen the wane of her honeymoon, I had begun to be her 
torment. She still went to parties, but generally with a 
smelling-bottle in her hand; and often when she looked 
less blooming than usual, people pitied her, and said '' it 
was her situalion. " 

Still she would go to balls ; and once or twice, when an 
agreeable partner offered, she could not resist a quadrille. 
Unfortunately waltzes were introduced ; my mother took 
^*eps to be fashionable ; and, after an evening of most im- 
prudent attivity, she returned home exceedingly indisposed, 



-207- 

ailcl bef<yi'€ morning was delivered of a seven-months' 
thild. Every body hlamed my mother, — ^no vC'onder, 
poor soul ! But will it be believed that any human bei/ig 
could liave the barbarity to blame me, a premature and 
imbecile suckling ? even so! It was no sooner observed 
that 1 was a strongly-made and rather active little creature, 
than the nurse assured every body that I must have given 
my mother a precious time of it ; indeed it was no wonder 
she could not sit at home quiet, poor thing ; and if, indeed, 
she had been a little wrong in dancing and keeping late 
hours, yet, after all, there certainly were ''faults on both 
sides. " 

I am thoroughly convinced that I tvasan exceedingly nice 
child; this conviction, I must confess, is not grounded upon 
any traditionary anecdotes; on the contrary, every old 
acquaintance of the family has some story to prove that I 
was ugly, mischievous, and unmanageable ; I was always 
breaking every thing that came in my way, my own nose 
included. My nurse and I were never of one mind, and 
every body in the house complained of high words in the 
nursery. My nurse really was a bad one, and thoughldare 
say I did squall spontaneously a good deal, yet bad ma- 
nagement often made me squall ten times worse. At last 
there was no peace and quietness in the house, and as my 
voice increased in power and volume, I became the more 
formidable. Fortunately for me, my shrieks one night at- 
tracted my mother unexpectedly to the nursery in her ball 
dress, and my enemy the nurse was detected in some breach 
of decorum which caused her to be instantly dissmissed ; 
every body abused her ; it was impossible to say much in 
her favour : yet, after all, it was whispered that she had an 
ill-tempered brat to deal with, and that, however bad the 
nurse might be, still there were '* faults on both sides." 



i 



Giving a boy a bad name is a gieat deal worse tl'an 
giving a dog one. I was sent to a public school, and lie 
master, after hearing a catalogue of my misdemeanours, 
>vas admonished to keep a strict eye upon me. Thus he 
was prejudiced against me from the first, and even a pe- 
dagogue may be blinded by prejudice. I saw I was suspec- 
ted, and I grew reckless : it must be admitted that I was 
a terrible pickle ; but a great big bully of a boy was my 
tyrant ; and thus, never having a fair chance with the mtaster , 
and unmercifully fagged by one of my schoolfellows, I 
became sulky and obstinate. At last my tormentor was 
detected in an act of wanton cruelty, and I was extricated 
from his clutches; but though I had the gratification of 
seeing him well whipped, I heard every one of the boys 
say, that though he certainly was a bully, yet that / was 
enough to worry a saint, and that, after all, there were 
" faults on both sides." 

But my boyishness was gone, and my hobedyhoyishness 
was going. The long-looked-for period of my finally 
leaving school was at hand, and I eagerly anticipated that 
grand privilege of manhood, the "having one's own way." 
That was v^hat 1 looked forward to during my last half 
year, and I believe all boys do the same : to be a man, to 
walk about in great boots, and a neckcloth, and to do what 
I pleased from morning till night! 

These bright anticipations of boyhood are not, however 
fated to be realized. The big boots and the neckcloth, 
indeed, come in due course ; but at what age can man be 
said to have his own way? 

I, for my part , never had mine. At the time I left 
school, I wai^ an orphan, and I went to reside with an old 
uncle, who was my guardian. He was an excellent person , 
who always, to the best of his judgment and abilities, did 



— 2o3 — 

his duty ; and his duty being clearly now to keep his nephew 
in good order, I found myself subject to a durance which, 
in my opinion, was vile. 

My uncle's government was too despotic ; he legislated 
about trifles, and his measures being sometimes arbitrary, 
he unwittingly strengthened the opposition. Often, in his 
study, did we hold long debates about tilings which were 
of minor importance, while greater misdemeanours, having 
escaped his vigilance, passed without comment ; but this 
often happens in greater debates than those which occurred 
in my uncle's study. 

In this one solitary instance the old saying was not my 
enemy, but it only affords an additional proof of its injust- 
ice. I could not manage to live with my uncle, I could 
not accommodate myself to his habits and fancies, yet it 
was my duty to endeavour to do so, therefore I alone was 
to blame ; yet still the lookers-on, who knew nothing about 
the matter, declared that there must have been '* faults on 
both sides. " 

About this time I fell desperately in love, and I believe 
I am correct in saying that the young lady burned with 
•what is called mutual ardour ; that is to say , she heard I 
-was an only child, and an orphan, and heir to considerable 
properly ; and so, when I sued for a smile, she condes- 
cended to bestow one. Her father and mother (after 
making a few secret inquiries concerning my prospects) 
took a prodigious fancy to me. The latter, indeed, was 
quite enthusiastic; she invited me every day, and at all hours, 
and there was always a knife and [fork laid for me, and, 
moreover, every delicacy prepared which could be likely 
to tempt a young man to come and make use of those 
articles of cutlery. I was already treated as one of the 

i4 



family ; I was left ietc-a-tete with Anna Maria half the 
moiniiig; and my future mother-in-law gave me all her best 
cookery, while her husband produced all his best wine. 

There really appeared never to have been so satisfactory a 
match ; for, independently of the mutual aiFection of the 
young couple, the old people seemed violently in love 
with me ; and it could scarcely be doubled ihat^ if by any 
accident the match could be broken oft*, there would ine- 
vitably he four lacerated,brokea hearts, instead of only tivo ! 

It so happened that I met wdth an old schoolfellow, a 
very w^ealthy Baronet; and, full of my own bright pros- 
pects, '* told my love, " and introduced him to the object 
of my adoration, and her family. " Love me, love ray 
dog;" of course then, love my friend; so Anna Blaria 
thought, and so thought her parents. Sir William was 
warmly received, was constantly invited, and soon seemed 
to be considered almost as great a pet as myself. I did not 
quite like this ; I thought there ought to be a marked dis- 
tinction, so I remonstrated : Anna Maria was pert and 
flippant; first laughted, then sneered, and at last told me, 
if I was displeased, I might go about my business. I left 
her, and appealed to my aft^eclionate friends her parents. 
They seemed prepared for my remonstrance, told me they 
had encouraged me because they supposed that mutual 
affection was the groundAvork of the connection ; but, smce 
it appeared that they had been mistaken, they suggested the 
propriety of my discontinuing my visits! Indignantly I 
did as I was bid, and six weeks afterwards Anna Maria 
became the Lady of a baronet. 'Twas a nine-days' wonder 
for the world; but though some pitied me, all agreed that 
there had been '' faults on both sides. " 

[VV~hat my fault had been, I was so dull as not to be able 



— 20D — 

to cli-cover; sol said, and a hot-headed, impudent fellow 
insulted me, and told me he was a friend of the family. 
Anna Maria's conduct had heen such, that my sufferings 
really were not very acute ; I therefore did not want to give 
her eclat by dying for her, so my reply was pacific, and I 
did all I could to avoid a quarrel. The bally, however, 
was implacable, I was fojxed into a duel, met my opponent 
at five o'clock on a summer's morning, and shot him dead 
ten minutes afterwards ; was obliged to lly my country : 
everybody allowed that I could not help acting as I had 
done, and the coroner cleared me ; but to this day I believe 
it to be universally admitted that there were " faults on 
both sides. " 

Ifcll in love again, and beautiful and innocent was the 
being who now attracted me. She was not, like my former 
love, an eldest daughter, ''come out" to prowl about and 
pounce upon an eligible establishment, where she might 
*' go in" and be mistress of her own actions. My choice 
was unsophisticated, and I was happy She jumped for 
j oy Avhen I made my offer, and we were married in a 
month. 

In both my love-affairs I had fallen 'into extremes ; my 
first love was hacknied in the ways of that worst of worlds, 
the fasliionable one ; and my second had never been used 
to good society, and was, consequently, unfit for it. It 
was my pride to take her every where that she might be 
seen, but it was my shame when she was accosted, for I 
knew she would be heard. She had no conversation ; she 
knew nothing about any thing ; the topic of the day was a 
dead language to her ; Sir Walter Scott's name sounded 
not more sweetly than Sir Richard Birnie's ; and Lord 
Byron was a nobleman, and nothing more! 



— -(:)()-— 

Tliis ignorance, however blissful, was not altogether to 
my iasle ; 1 endeavoured to teach my fair one, and there- 
fore I Lecame to her somewhat of a bore. Certain young 
men, quite as ignorant of things in general as she could 
possibly be, frequented my house, and as they did woif teach, 
she thought them infinitely more agreeable than her hus- 
band. She grew weary of me, and, alas ! she ran away. 

The case was flagrant; without difficulty I obtained 
damages, and a divorce ; but still, as usual, when my friends 
and neighbours, ( or rather as benefit play-bills express it, ) 
when ''the nobility, gentry, and public in general, " had 
duly discussed the case, they unanimously decided that 
there had been '' faults on both sides. " 

I was now once more a single man, at least in the estim- 
ation of marriageable young ladies. But the singleness 
obtained by a divorce is not quite satisfactory ; it is like 
involuntarily beginning the world again, when what the 
newspapers call **the devouring element," has destroyed 
one^s stock in trade. One cannot but remember, also, 
that "such things were; " and that a certain person, inti- 
mately acquainted with all one's failings, foibles, and 
fancies, islet loose upon the world, and that, ** if a body 
meet a body in a narrow lane, " the accidental rencontre 
would be a bore. 

K. lam quite sure that nothing endears a couple so much to 
each other as divorce ; the moment all ties are severed, and 
we feel that \he shades of character cannot,by any possibility, 
hereafter annoy us, it is astonishing how very prominently 
all the little lights start forth on the canvass : so it was 
with me ; others looked upon me as a single man, but I 
could not blot from the tablet of my memory, that I had 
heard Jemima Simpkins vow to love, to honour, and to 



I 



— 207 — 

obey me. She had done neilher of the three duties, atid 
it wounded me keenly to hear faults attributed to both sides; 
but had a footpad slopped me on the highway, and robbed 
me of watch and cash, I do believe the same thing would 
have been said. 

The same thing, in fact, ivas said shortly afterwards, 
when I was an innocent sufterer, to a severe, indeed, a 
ruinous extent. Having no domestic ties, no cheerful 
fireside at home, I began to get low-spirited, and longed for 
some sort of occupation. I had no pursuit ; I could not 
ride out of a morning for the mere purpose of riding home 
again in the afternoon. It is very well for elderly ladies 
to take what they call airings ; but a man in the prime of 
life requires something more exciting, at least I did, and 
when I had arranged with the partners of a banking-house 
in a neighbouring town, that I should be admitted into the 
firm, I became comparatively happy, for I deemed myself 
a man of business. 

Accounts were not at all in my way. As a boy, I had 
sighed over the mysteries of multiplication ; addition had 
added materially to my distress, and subtraction taken away 
much of my repose. Daily, however, did I ride into the 
town to call at the bank ; assuming all the serious import- 
ance of a man of business, talking of my engagements and 
avocations, and really persuading myself that 1 had a great 
deal to do. 

All this time, I actually knew nothing of the true 
condition of the bank ; I had given it * ' my name , which 
is no part of me ; " and, in return , I was told that I should 
add considerably to my income. But though / had evi- 
dently ^' no speculation in my eye, " my partners certainly 
had in theirs. We speculated in mines, and, unluckily, 
the mines exploded, and the bank -svas blown up. 



— 2o8— 

This news was told me one morning, when I was 
snugly enjoying my tea and toast : I was insolvent; every 
thing 1 had went to answer the calls upon the bank ; and, 
after all, the creditors were paid three-and-seven-pence 
in the pound ; so they curse me, beggar as I am. The prin- 
cipal obloquy certainly has fallen on my partners; but still 
every body says there were '* faults on both sides." 

Is not this hard ? have I not a righ t to execrate old women's 
sayings ? But I must end my lamentation ; and for once I 
will admit that even the saying in question may, in an in- 
stance or two, few and far between, be used with propriety; 
for should the reader not quite perceive the point and drift 
of this paper, and accuse the writer of duincss, then I am 
quite sure there must hejaulis on bath sides. 



AUTOBIOGHAPHY OF A LANDAULET, 



I DINED one day at a bachelor's dinner in Lincolns-inn- 
fields, and my wife having no engagement that evening, 
1 gave my coachman a half-holiday, and when he had set 
me down, desired him to put up his horses, as I should 
return home in a Jarvey. At eleven, my conveyance ar- 
rived ; the steps were let down, and when down, they 
slanted under the body of the carriage ; my foot slipped 
from the lowest step, and I grazed my shin against the 
second ; but at last I surmounted the difficulty, and seating 
myself, sank back upon the musty, fusty, ill-savourcd 



— 209 — 

squabs of the jarvcy. I was about to undertake a very' 
formidable journey ; I lived in the Regent's Park ; and aS 
the horses that now drew me had been worked hard dur- 
ing the day, it seemed probable that some hours would 
elapse before I could reach my own door. Off they went, 
however ; the coachman urged them on with whip and 
tongue : the body of the jarvey swung to and fro ; the 
glasses shook and clattered ; the straw on the floor felt 
damp, and rain-water oozed through the roof, (for it w^as 
a landaulet ). I felt chilled, and drew up the front win- 
dow ; at least I drew up the frame , but as it contained no 
glass, I was not the warmer for my pains ; so I wrapped my 
cloak around me, and rather sulkily sank into a reverie. The 
vehicle stiil continued io rumble, and rattle, and shake, 
and squeak ; I fell into a doze, caused by some fatigue and 
much claret, and gradually these sounds seemed to soften 
into a voice ! I distioguished intelligible accents ! I listened 
attentively to the low murmurs, and distinctly heard, and 
treasured in my memory, what appeared to me to be the 
''Lament of the Landaulet !" 

The poor body seemed to sigh, and the wheels became 
spokesmen ! 

" I am about fifteen years of age," thus squeaked my 
equipage; "1 was born in Long Acre, the birth-place of 
the aristocracy of my race, and Messrs. Houldilch vveie 
my parents. 

' * No four-wheeled carriage could possibly have enter- 
ed upon life with brighter prospects ; it is, alas ! my hard 
lot to detail the vicissitudes that render me what I am. 

*' 1 was ordered by an Earl, who was on the point of 
marriage wdlh an heiress, and I was fitted up in the most 
expensive style. My complexion was pale yellow ; on my 



— 212 — 

ing, profligate, and unfeeling. The lady — it is painful 
to speak of her: what she had been, she could never more 
be ; and what she then ivas^ she herself had yet to 
learn. She had been the darling pet daughter of a rich old 
roan ; and a dissipated nobleman had married her for her 
money when she was only sixteen. She had been accus- 
tomed to have every wish gratified by her doating parent ;' 
she now found herself neglected and insulted by her hus- 
band. Her father could not bear to see his darling's 
once smiling face grow pale and sad, and he died two years 
after her mariage. She plunged into the whirlpool of dis- 
sipation, and tasted the rank poisons which are so often 
sought as the remedies for a sad heart. From folly she ran 
to imprudence, from Imprudence to guilt; — and was the 
runaway wife happier than she who once suffered unme- 
rited ill-usage at home ? Time will. show. 

"At Bright on, my wheels rattled along the cliffs as briskly 
and as loudly as the noblest equipage there ; but no female 
turned a glance of recognition to^vards my windows, and 
the eyes of former friends were studiously averted. I bore 
my lady through the streets, and I ^.vaited for her now and 
then at the door of the theatre ; but at gates of respectability, 
at balls, and at assemblies, J, alas! was never 'called,' and 
never 'stopped the way.' Like a disabled soldier, I ceased 
to bear arms^ and I was crest~idX\(ti\. ! 

*' This could not last : my mistress could little brook 
contempt, especially when she felt it to be deserved ; her 
cheek lost its bloom, her eye its lustre ; and when her beauty 
became less brilliant, she no longer possessed the only at- 
traction which had made the captain her lover. He grew 
weary of her, soon took occasion to quarrel with her, and 
she was left without friends, without income, and without 
charac!er. I wa^ at leBglh ^orn fiom her : it nearly broke 



~2i3- 

my springs to part %vith her ; but I was dipatched to the 
bazaar in London, and saw no more of my lady. 

'* It happened to be a dall time of year, and for some 
months my Avheels ceased to be rotatory : I got cold and 
damp ; and the moths found their way to my inside : one 
or two persons who came to inspect me, declined becoming 
purchasers, and peering closely at my pannels, said some- 
thing about *old scratch.' Thishurt my feelings, for if my 
former possessor was not quite so good as she might have 
been, it was no fault of mine, 

*' At length, after a tedious inactivity, I was bought 
cheap by a young physician, who having rashly left his 
provincial patients to set up in London, took it into his 
head that nothing could be done there by a medical man 
Avho did not go upon wheels ; he therefore hired a house 
in a good situation, and then set me up, and bid my vendor 
put me down in his bill. 

**lt is qm(e astonishing how we flew about the streets and 
squares, acting great practice; those who knew us by sight 
must have thought we had a great deal to do, but we prac- 
tised nothing but locomotio;i. Some medical men thin the 
population, so says Slander ; my master thinned nothing 
but his horses. T.hey were the only good jobs that came 
in his way, and certainly he made the most of them. He was 
obliged lo feed ihQTQ.^ but he was very rarely^cfi? himself. 
It so happened that nobody consulted us, and the unavoid- 
able consumption of the family infected m.y master's pocket, 
and his little resources were in a rapid decline. 

** Still he kept a.good heart; indeed, in one respect, he 
resembled a worm displayed in a quack's shop window — 
he was never out of spirits ! He was deeply in debt, and 
his name was on every body's books, always excepting the 



memorandum books of those who wan led physicians. Still 
I was dally, tmned out, and though nobody called him in, 
he was to be seen, sitting very forward, apparently look- 
ing over notes supposed to have been taken after nume- 
rous critical cases and eventful consultations. Our own 
case was hopeless, our progress was arrested, an execution 
was in the house, servants met with their deserts and were 
turned off, goods were seized, my master was knocked up 
and I was knocked down for one hundred and twenty pounds. 
* * Again my beauties blushed for a while unseen ; but I 
was new painted, and, like some other painted persona- 
ges^ looked, at a distance, almost as good as new. For- 
tunately for me, an elderly country curate, just at this pe- 
riod, was presented with a living, and the new incumbent 
thought it incumbent upon him to present his fat lady and 
Lis thin daughter wiih a leathern convenience. My life 
was now a rural one, and for ten long years nothing worth 
recording happened to me. Slowly and surely did I creep 
along lanes, carried the respectable trio to snug, early, 
neighbourly dinners, and was always under lock and key 
before twelve o'clock. It must be owned I began to have 
rather an old-fashioned look ; my body was ridiculously 
small, and the rector's thin daughter, the bodkin, or rather 
packing-needle of the party, sat more forNvard, and on a 
smaller space than bodkins do now-a-days. I was perched 
up three feet higher than more modern vehicles, and my 
two lamps began to look like little dark lanterns. But my 
obsoleteness rendered me only the more suited to the ser- 
vice in which I was enlisted. Honest Roger, the red- 
haired [coachman, would have looked like Clown in the 
pantomime, in front of a fashionable equipage ; and Simon 
the footboy, who slouched at my back, would have been 
mistaken for an idle urchin sun eplitiously enjoying a ride. 



-2l5- 

But on my unsophisticated dickey and footboard no one 
could doubt that Roger and Simon were in their proper 
places. The rector died j; of course he had nothing more 
to do with the living ^ it passed into other hands ; and a cler- 
ical income being (alas, that it should be so ! ) no inherit- 
ance, his relict, suddenly plunged in widowhood and po- 
verty, had the aggravated misery of mourning for a dear 
husband, while she was conscious that the luxuries and 
almost the necessaries of life were for ever snatched from 
herself and her child. 

'* Again I found myself in London, but my beauty was 
gone, I had lost the activity of youth, and when slowly I 
chanced to creak through Long Acre, Houlditch, my very 
parent, \vho was standing at his door sending forth a new- 
born Britska, glanced at me scornfully, and knew me not! 
I passed on heavily — I thought of former days of triumph, 
and there was madness in the thought — I became a crazy 
vehicle ! straw was thrust into my inward parts, I was 
numbered among the fallen — yes, I was now a hackney-, 
chariot, and my number was one hundred ! 

** What tongue can tell the degradations I have endured! 
The persons who familiarly have called me, the wretches 
who have sat in me— never can this be told ! Daily I take 
my stand in the same vile street, and nightly am 1 driven 
to the minor theatres — to oyster-shops — to desperation ! 
One day, when empty and unoccupied, I was hailed by 
two police officers who were bearing between them a 
prisoner. It was the seducer of my second ill-fated mis- 
tress ; a first crime had done its usual work, it had pre- 
pared the mind for a second and worse : the seducer had 
done a deed of deeper guilt, and / bore him one stage to- 
wards the gallows. Many months after, a female called 
me at midnight j she >yas decked in tattered finery, and 



what with fatigue and recent indulgence hi strong liquors, 
she was scarcely sensible, but she possessed dim traces of 
past beauty. lean say noihing more of her, but that it 
was the fugitive wife whom I liad borne to Brighton so 
many years ago. No words of mine could paint the living 
warning that I beheld. What had been the sorrows of 
unnieriled desertion anduokindness supported by conscious 
rectitude, compared with the degraded guilt, the hopeless 
anguish, that I then saw. 

" I regret to say, I was last month nigh committing 
manslaughter ; I broke down in the Strand and dislocated 
the shoulder of a rich old maid. I cannot help thinking 
that she deserved the visitation, for, as she stepped into me 
in Oxford Street, she exclaimed, loud enough to be heard 
by all neighbouring pedestrians : 'Dear me ! how dirty! I 
never was in a hackney conveyance before!' — though I 
well remembered having been favoured with her company 
very often. A medical gentleman happened to be passing 
at the moment of our fall ; it was my old medical master. 
He set the shoulder, and so skilfully did he manage his 
patient, that he is about to be married to the rich invalid , 
who Nvill shoulder him into prosperity at last. 

'* I last night w^as the bearer of a real party of pleasure 
to Astley's : — a bride and bridegroom, with the mother 
of the bride. It was the widow of the old rector, whose 
thin daughter (by-the by, she is fattening fast) has had the 
luck to marry the only son of a merchant well to do in the 
world." 

The voice suddenly ceased ! — I awoke — -the door was 
opened, the steps let down — I paid the coachman double 
the amount of his fare, and in future, whenever I stand in 
need of a jarvoy, I shall certainly make a point of calling 
for number one hundred. 



THE EXHIBITED DWARF, 

I i,AY without my father's door, a wretched dwarfish boy ; 
1 did iiot.dare to lift the latch, — I heard the voice of joy ; 
Too well I knew when / was near my father never smiled ; 
And slie who bore me turn'd away, abhorring her poor child. 

A stranger saw me, and he bribed my parents with his gold! 
Oh J deeper shame awaited me — the dwarfisb boy was sold ! 
They never loved me, never claimed the love I cow/Jhave felt ; 
And yet,' wi'ih bitter tears, I left the cottage where they dwelt. 

The stranger seem'd more kind to me, he spoke of brighter days ; 
He lured each slumbering talent forth , and gave unwonted praise ; 
Unused to smiles, how ardently 1 panted for applause ! 
And daily he instructed me — too soon I learn'd the cause. 

I stood upon his native shore ; the secret was explainM ; 
I was a vile, degraded slave, in mind and body chaln'd! 
Condemned to face, day after day, the rabble's ruffian gaze ; 
To shrink before their merriment, or blush before then- praise ! 

In anguish I must still perform the oft-repeated task ; 

And courteously reply to all frivolity may ask ! 

And bear inhuman scrutiny, and hear the hateful jest ! 

And sing the song — then cravv 1 away to tears instead of rest ! 

I know I am diminutis^e; aye, loathsome, if you will ;■ 

But say, ye hard hearts ! am I not a human being still ? 

W ith feelings, sensitive as yours perhaps, I have been born ; 

/ could not wound a fellow man in mockery, or scorn ! 

But ,907725 there are who seem to shrink a^vay from me at first, 

And then speak kindly ; to my heart that trial is the worst ! 

Oh, then 1 long to kneel to them, imploring them to save 

A ho^'eis wretch, who only asks an honourable grave ! 



— 2l8-^ 



THE FATHERLESS 



"Come hither, 'tis thy father, boy ! 

Receive him with a kiss.'' — 
{;.^*Oh, mother, mother! do not jest 

On such a theme as this : 
Though I was but a little child, 

How bitterly I cried, 
And clung to thee in agony, 

When my poor father died." 

**Come, child, this is no time to weep, 

Partake thy mother's joy ; 
The husband of my choice will prove 

A parent to my boy." — 
"Oh, mother ! mother, say not so, 

I cast no blame on thee, 
But yon gay stranger cannot feel 

A father's love for me." 

"Come, boy, 'tis for thy sake I wed"— 

"No, mother, not for mine^ 
I do not ask in all the world, 

One smile of love, save thine : 
Oh ! say why is the widow's veil 

So early thrown aside : 
The hateful rumour is not true ? 

Thou wilt not be a bride ? 



— '219 — 

"Oh, mother, canst thou quite forget 

How hand in h^d we crept 
To my own honour 'd father's bed, 

To watch him as he slept ; 
And do you not remember still 

His fond but feeble kiss ?"— 
*VAlas! such thoughts but little suit 

A day — of joy— like tliis." — 
* 'Of joy! oh, mother, we must part, 

This is no home for me ; 
I cannot bear to breathe one word 

Of bitterness to thee. 
My father placed my hand in thine, 

And bade me love thee well. 
And how I love, these tears of shame 

May eloquently tell. 

"Thou say'st yon stranger loves thy child ; 

I see he strives to please ; 
But, mother, do not be his bride, 

I ask it on my knees : 
I us'd to listen to his voice 

AVith pleasure, I confess ; 
But call him husband ! and I shrink 

Asham'd of his caress. 

"Had I been younger when he died, 

Scarce conscious of his death, 
I might perhaps have smiled to see 

Thy gems and bridal wreath : 
My memory would have lost a tie 

So very lightly link'd, 
Beiigning that dear form, wlxich novv 

Is vividly distinct. 

i5 



I 



*'Had I been older— more inuEfid 

To this world's cold career, 
I might have sought a festival 

To check a filial tear : 
Gay banners find gay followers — 

But, from their station hurl'd, 
The gay forget them, and pursue 

The next that is unfurl'd. 

**ButI am of an age to prize 

The being in whom blend 
The love and the solicitude 

Of Monitor and Friend : 
Hi plann'd my boyish sports, and shared 

Each joy and care I felt j 
And taught my infant lips to pray^ 

As by his side I knelt. 

**Yet deem not mine an impious grief; 

No, mother, thou wilt own 
tWith cheerfulness I spoke of him 

"When we have been alone. 
But bring no other father here— 

No, mother, we must part ; 
The feeling that I 'm Fatherless 

JVeighs heavy on my heart/i 



^—221 



f HE NEGLECTED CHILD. 



I never was a favourite — 

My mother never smiled 
On me, vtrith half the tenderness 

That bless'd her fairer child ; 
IVe seen her kiss my sister's cheek, 

While fondled on her knee ; 
iVe turned a>vay to hide my tears-*— 

There was no kiss for me ! 

And yet I strove to please with all 

My little store of sense ; 
1 strove to please, and infancy 

Can rarely give offence ; 
But when my artless efforts met 

A cold ungentle check, 
I did not dare to throw myself 

In t^ars upon her neck. 

How Blessed are the beautiful ? 

Love watches o'er their birth ; 
Oh beauty ! in my nursery 

I learn'd to know thy worth ;— 
For even there, I often felt 

Forsaken and forlorn •, 
And wished — for others wished it too- 

I never had been born t 



I'm sure 1 was affectionate — 
^^i But in my sister's face, 
There was a look of love that claim'd 

A smile or an embrace. 
But when / rais'd my lip to meet 

The pressure children prize, 
None knew the feelings of my heart — : 

They spoke not in niy eyes. 

But oh ! that heart too keenly felt 

The anguish of neglect ; 
I saw my sister's lovely form 

With gems and roses deck'd ; 
I did not covet ihem : but oft, ; 

When wantonly reprov'd, 
I envied her the privilege 

Of being so belov'd. 

But soon a time of triumph came-^^ 

A tinie of sorrow too, — 
For Sickness o 'er my sister's form 

Her venom'd mantle threw : 
The features, once so beautiful, 

Now wore the hue of death ; 
And former friends shrank fearfully 

Fijom, her infectious breath. 

'TWas then, unwearied, day and night, 

I watch'd beside her bed, 
And fearlessly upon my breast 

I pillow'd her poor head. 
She liv'd ! — and lov'd me for my care!-— 

' My grief was at an end ; 
I was a lonely being once, 

But now I hai^e a friend. 



— 225^ — 

THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE ONE. 



I dare thee to forget me ! Go, wander where thou wilt, 
Thy hand upon the vessel's helm, or on the sabre's hilt; 
Away ! thouVtfree ! o'er land and sea go rush to danger's brink ! 
But oh, thou canst not fly from thought ! thy curse shall be to thinkl 

Remember me ! remember all my long-enduring love 
I'hat link'd itself to perfidy ; the vulture and the dove ! 
Remember in thy utmost need I never once did shrink, 
But clung to thee confidingly ; thy curse shall be — to ifiink ! 

Then go ! that thought will render thee a dastard in the fight, 
Thatthou^htywhen thou art tempest-tost, will fill thee with affright ; 
In some vile dungeon may'st thou lie, and, counting each cold link 
That binds thee to captivity, thy curse shall be — to think ! 

Go ! seek the merry banquet hall, w^ere younger maidens bloom, 
The thought oime shall make thee there endure a deeper gloom ; 
That thought shall turn the festive cup to poison while you drink, 
And while false smiles are on thy cheek , thy curse will be — to tliink ! 

Forget me ! false one, hope it not ! when minstrels touch the string, 
The memory of other days will gall thee while they sing ; 
The air I us'd to love will make thy coward conscience shrink — 
Aye, ev'ry note will have its sting — thy curse will be — to think ! 

Forget me ! No, that shall not be 1 I'll haunt thee in thy sleep, 
In dreams thou'lt cling to slimy rocks that overhang the deep ; 
Thou'lt shriek for aid ! My feeble arm shall hurl thee from the brink, 
And when thou wak'st in wild dismay, thy curse will be — to think! 



TWEPCTY YEARS 



They tell me twenty years arc past 

Since 1 have look'd upon thee last, 

And thought thee fairest of the fair, 

iWith thy sylph-like form and light brown hair ! 

I can rememher every word 

That from those smiling lips I heard ; 

Oh ! how little it appears 

Like the lapse of twenty years! 

Thou art changed [ in thee I find 

Beauty of another kind ; 

Those rich curls lie on thy brow 

In a darker cluster now ; 

And the sylph hath given place 

To the matron's form of grace :—r 

Yet how little it appears 

Like the lapse of twenty years \ 

Still thy cheek is round and fair ; 
'Mid thy curls not one grey hairj 
Not one lurking sorrow lies 
In the lustre of those eyes : 
Thou hast felt, since last we met^ 
No affliction, no regret! 
.Wonderful ! to shed no tears 
in the lapse of twe|[itv year§ \ 



But what means that changing brow ? 
Tears are in those dark eyes now ! 
Have my rash, incautious words 
Waken'd Feeling's slumbering chords? 
^'W herefore dost thou bid me look 
At yon dark-bound journal book? — 
There the register appears 
Of the lapse of twenty years ! 

Thou hast been a happy bride, 
Kneeling by a lover' side ; 
And unclouded was thy life, 
As his loved and loving wife : 
Thou hast worn the garb of gloom, 
Kneeling by tliat husband's tomb ; 
Thou hast wept a widow's tears 
In the lapse of twenty years? 

Oh ! I see my error now, 
To suppose, in cheek and brow, 
Strangers may presume to fmd 
Treasured secrets of the mind : 
There fond Memory still will keep 
Her vigil, when she seems to sleep; 
Though composure re-appears 
In the lapse of twenty years I 



— 226 

WIT AND FOLLY. 



Once Folly tried lo'cheat the world 

Assuming Wit's demeanor, 
And thought (poor fool ! ) the darts she hurled. 

Than ATV^it's own darts were keener I 
tWhile those of Wit were used in sport, 

And dipp'd in Pleasure's chalice, 
Young Folly us'd another sort 

W^hose only point was Malice. 

A sly and secret aim she took 

But e'er one heart was wounded, 
Upon herself hy some ill luck 

Each venom'd shaft rebounded : 
So wisdom ventured to express 

This gentle hint to guide her, 
*' When Wit takes aim with most success? 

Good nature stands beside her." 

I PAVE ^0T KIVOWN THEE LONG. 



I have not known thee long, Sir Knight, 

Yet oft I've heard thy name ; 
For in our village we delight 

To trace a Hero's fame ; 
I've thought of thee, I'll not deny, 

Until I seem'd to know 
The very glance of ihat dark, eye 

Which a\ved my Country's foe. 



Yet nerer lightly prize the heart 

That seems so lightly won ; 
'Tis surely a dissembler's part 

That which we love, to shun ! 
And Vd dissemble if I thought 

Such guile thou would'st approve ; 
But no— -the maid that you have sought, 

Must glory in your Love. 

I'll follow you throughout the world, 

To danger or to death ; 
But should we see the banner furl'd, 

The weapon in it's sheath, 
iWe'lI love asTondly to the last, 

And hand in hand we 11 roam, 
As if our days had all been past 

Within a peacefol home. 



SIR HUGH IS GOKE TO PALESTINE. 



Sir Hugh is gone to Palestine , to fight the Paynim foe, 

Oh! Ladies should have fortitude when Lords are forc'd to go ; 

And Lady Kate well knows this truth, a beauteous Lame is she,^ 

And smiling is her solitude, «/* solitude it be : 

Her casement overlooks the sea, and there she sits all day— 

Oh ! is it not to sorrow o'er her plighted Lord's delay ! 

And nightly burns a taper there I oh ! is it not to guide 

The vessel of her plighted Lord across the stormy tide ! 



—228-- 

Sir Hugh is gone to Palestine, and there he must remaia^ 
Oh ! Lady fair ! thy watchful days, thy beacon light are rain; 
And yet they say, within the bay, another light is seen 
Borne nightly by a stranger bark ! what can such signal mean ! 
ConceaFd beneath the battlement there is a secret gate, 
Known only to the Castle's Lord, and to his plighted mate ; 
Until her own dear Lord's return, shall other hands be taught 
To touch the secret spring? — away- — we spurn the hateful thought. 

Again she lights her taper, and looks forth upon the deep- 
No answer from the stranger bark ! — why, Lady, dost thou weep ! 
That signal at the secret gate ! — she throws it open wide — 
And instantly a knight in arms is standing at her side : 
*'Oh Edgar, art thou come at last ! Nay speak to me" — she cries — 
His helm is rais'd ! — she shrinks before those dark indignant eyes ! 
Sir Hugh is come from Palestine ! he spurns his plighted bride, 
And Edgar's life-blood mingles with the Ocean's ebbing tide. 



THE LOYER'S QUARREL. 

His foot in the stirrup, his hand on the rein, 
"Why turns the young knight from his charger again ? 
How lately his dark eye was kindled with rage I 
How lately he summon'd his little foot page ! 
He vow'd he would ride from the castle to day> 
—And ev'ning is coming ; oh ! why doth he stay?, 

His Lady Love danced with another last night ; 
He came to upbraid her — her partner to fight ; 
She laugh'd at his anger, and from her he flew. 
Exclaiming : for ever, false Lady, adieu ! 
He summon'd his charger, and brooked not delay ; 
And noiv it is rca'ly-— oh ! why doth he slay? 



i^gj^ia to b^r dumLerUe silently steals! 
liefore her again the poor penitent kneels ! 
Again her white fingers are clasp'd in his own! 
Again his pluni'd bonnet beside hini is throwal 
The steed and the Page are forgotten to day 1 
fhe lady is smiling ! The Lover will stay I 



LEA'S BBIDAL DAY. 

'•To morrow is my bridal day " The lovely Lea cries. 

And gazes from her casement on the calm and starry skies; 

^'Tomorrow is my bridal day, and I shall bid farewell, 

'>To the home so very dear to me, where my little sisters dwell. 

^*0h! bring my bridal garments here, such thoughts will make me weep; 

*'The showy robe— the jeweFd chain — FU see them e'er I sleep; 

**And come, my little sisters , kneel beside me while I pray ;-— » 

^* Why are my spirits thus depressed, so near my bridal day !" 

The night is past — and Lea stands before the casement now, 

Her hands press back the raven curls from off her marble brow; 

She gazes like a trembling child by midnight visions scared, 

For some inevitable ill, some coming grief prepared ! 

ITpr sisters bring her bridal robe, her jewels, and her wreath, 

She heeds them not, but watches still the path accoss the heath ; 

They tell her it is time to dress, she motions them away, 

And whispers : '4et me have my will upon my bridal day." 

It is the Bridal hour, and the guests are at the gate ;— 

What gloom pervades the festival! the Bridegroom too is late ! 

Tlie Bridemaids in their gayest robes are all assembled there ; 

P^f the Bride is pale and unadorned— the statue of despair ! 

''He comes ! he comes !" ^t length she cries *'lhave not watch'd in vain" ! 

They bestr a lifeless Bridegroom in, and by his Rival slain ; 

A Bride scarce livine waits for him-^*-The rites no more delay, 

I 4yin| plight my troth tp him-^'tis still my Bridal day !" 



li 



^23o — 
HE RODE BY AT MORN. 

He rode by at morn on his coui^ser so black, 

And he said that at noon we should see him ride back, 

Like a Bridegroom who speeds to his Bride he was drest, 

A plume is his cap and a rose at his breast ; 

Look forth from the casement, look over the plain 

We shall see him ride by on his courser again. 

I hear the steed coming. — His form I discern — 
No, 'tis not the rider who pass'd me at morn ! 
'Tis his rival, whose right arm encircles the waist 
Of a Lady whose light form before him is plac'd ; 
So swiftly they pass that pursuit will be vain, 
Oh I when will the poor Lover pass us again. 

Another steed comes ; but so tardy his pace, 
He seems like the jaded one last in a race, 
The face of the Rider is clouded with gloom, 
His rose bud is faded, and broken his plume : 
He gaily rode by us at morn — but 'tis plain 
Displeased with his journey he rides back again. 



I LOVED HIM— BUT I LEFT HIM. 

I loved him, but I left him ! 'twas a cruel day for me, 
They said he had another Bride who dwelt far o'er the sea i 
They ^aid I was no wife to him, altho' I bore his name, 
And I left him, tho' I lov'd him ! oh ! was I then to blame, ?J 
I heard him spurn the rumour, how happy vvas my heart, 
I bade him prove his innocence, and urged him to depart^ 
And as he went, I smiling said : *'l have not been deceiv'd, 
"Oh ! say thou hast no other wife."^' — Ut said—and I believ'd ! 



-23l- 

Hc kissM me when he left me, and his tears fell on my check, 
I bade him call me ''Wife''' again— he wept— and could not speak ; 
I saw him go without a tear ! tears would have look'd like dread, 
And ij misgivings chill'd my heart, still not one tear I shed ! 
I smiling wav'd my hand to him as on the beach I knelt, 
I veil'd from evVy friendly eye the agony I felt ; 
'Twas in the solitude of Home that secretly I griev'd 
For one whose truth I would have given worlds to have believM. 

He came not — and he comes not — and I look not for him now ; 
1 am no Bride — altho' I heard him breathe a Bridal vow ; ' 

I am not guilty, yet I shun the eyes of all I meet, 
And feel like a Deceiver, tho' the victim of Deceit ! 
He has another happy home ! my story whisper'd therey 
Might teach a fond confiding heart to doubt, — and to despair! 
Oh ! may she never hear my name ! may he be still believ'd ; 
And never see the grave of Her, who loved — and was deceiv'd. 



MAY THY LOT IN LIFE BE HAPPY 



May thy lot in life be happy, undisturbed by thoughts of me, 
The God who shelters innocence thy guard and guide will be ; 
Thy heart will lose the chilling sense of hopeless love at last, 
And the sunshine of the future chase the shadows of the past. 

I never wish to meet thee more, though I am still thy friend, 
I never wish to meet thee more, since dearer ties must end ; 
With worldly smiles, and wordly words, I could not past thee by, 
!Nor turn from thee unfeelingly with cold averted eye. 

I could T30t bear to meet thee 'midst the thoughtless and the gay ; 
1 could not bear to view thee deck'd in fashion's bright array ; 
And less could I endure to meet thee pensive and alone, 
> When thro' the trees the ev'ning breeze breathes forth its cheerless moan. 



For 1 have met thee 'midst the gay — and thought of none but thee ; 
And I have seen thy bright array — when it was worn for me ; 
And often near the sunny waves iVe wandered by thy side, 
With joy— that pass'd away as fast as sunshine from the tide. 

But cheerless is the summer ! there is nothing happy now ; 
The daisy withers on the lawn, the blossom on the bough : 
The boundless sea looks chillingly, like winter's waste of snow, 
And it hath lost the soothing sound with which it used to flow . 

I never wish to meet thee more— yet think not IVe been taught, 
By smiling foes, to injure thee by one unworthy thought. 
No : — ^blest with some beloved one, from care and sorrow free^ 
May thy lot in life be happy, undisturbed by thoughts of mCi 



THE FORSAKEN TO HER FATHER. 

Oh ! name him not, unless it be 

In terms I shall not blush to hear ; 
Oh ! name him not : though false to mc. 

Forget not he was once so dear j 
Oh ! think of former happy days 

When none could breathe a dearer name, 
And if you can no longer praise. 

Be silent, and forbear to blame. 

He may Le^^all that you have heard ; 

If proved 'twere folly to defend ; 
Yet pause e'er you believe one word 

Breath'd gainst the honor of a Friend : 
How many seem in haste to tell 

What Friends can never wish to know ; 
/ answer — once 1 knew him well, 

And then, at least, it was not sol 



—233-- 

You say when all condemn him thus. 

To praise him leads to disrepute : 
But had the whole world censured us, ^ 

Father , He would not have been mute ! 
He may be changed, and he may learn 

To slander Friends, as others do ; 
But if (ve blame him^ <ve in turn 

Have learnt that hateful lesson too. 

Desertion of myself, his worst, 

His only crime perhaps may prove i 
Shall He of all men, be the j^rsi 

Condemn'd for being false in love ? 
The world has never yet denied 

Its' favor to the falsest heart j 
Its sanction rather seems to guide 

The hand again to aim the dart I 

You hate him. Father, for you know 

That he was cruel to your child, 
Alas ! I strove to hide my woe, 

And when you look'd on me I smil'd : 
But on my faded cheek appears 

An evidence of all I've felt, 
I pray'd for strength, but falling tears 

Betray 'd my weakness as I knelt ! 

Oh ! hate him not I he may have seen 

Some error that was never meant ; 
And love , you know, hath ever been 

Prone to complain, and to resent: 
Hate him not, Father ! nor believe 

Imputed crimes, 'till they are proved j 
And proof should rather make us grieve 

For on€| who once was 50 beloved. 



2^4 — 

THE SONG OF THE DYING BARD. 



My Harp ! I still hold thee I 

My feehle hand clings. 
Around thee to waken 

The voice of thy strings: 
That voice was my glory, 

And now that the skill 
Of the minstrel must leave me, 

'Tis dear to me still : 
Oh ! dearer than ever ! 

My Harp ! if thou hast 
One note, I invoke it; 

The sweetest ! the last ! 

Ah ! well I remember 

How proudly I nurst 
My powers in secret, 

AVhen feeling them first 1 
]So(V wakimg thy numbers 

"With Hope in my breast ; 
Noiv throwing thee frona me, 

Dejected, deprest! 
Yet dearer than ever, 

My Harp ! if thou hast 
One note, I invoke it, 

The sweetest ! the last ! 



'Tis early to leave thee, 

'Tis early to lose 
The young Bard's ambition 

The wreath of the muse : 



And feeling within me 

Fresh fountains of thought, 
To die — leaving others 

The Triumph I sought ! 
Oh ! dearer than ever^ 

My harp, if thou hast 
One note, I invoke it, 

The sweetest, the last ! 



THE PILGRIM. 



.Where is the daring Rover, 

The brigand of the deep ? 
Can such a restless spirit lie 

Lull'd into peaceful sleep I 
His name was a word of terror! 

His deeds were a theme for song ! 
Where is he now ? — oh ! the Rover's prow 

Was never at rest so long ! 

Where is the graceful Lover 

So daintily array'd ? 
So famed above all other youths 

For dance and serenade ! 
None question'd the nameless stranger 

Beguil'd by his voice and lute ; 
Where doth he stray? oh! the Lover's lay 

Hath never so long been mute ! 



Behold yon lonely Pilgrim 

In penitential prayer ; 
His hands are folded on his breast, 

His cheek is pale with care : 
You look on the graceful Lover ! 

You look on the Rover chief 1 
— 'Tis thus Pxemorse brings a change far worse 

Than is wrought by Time or Grief. 



SHALL WE EVER BE HAPPY AGAIN T 

Shall we ever be happy again ? 

Shall we ever wake in the morning, 
'W iihout that ominous gloom, 

V^ hich seems the heart's sure warning. 
Of something sad to come ? 
Shall we ever lie down to slumber 

Without that thought of care. 
To morrow will add to the number 

Of ills that we must bear ? 
Shall we ever be happy again ? 

Shall we ever be happy again ? 

Shall we ever in summer hours 
Walk under the trees near home. 

And gather the fragrant flow'rs, 
And talk of bright days to come ? 
Unseen, shall I know I am near thee^ 

By hearing thy cheerful voice ? 
Oh! sing as I used to hear thee. 

And I shall again rejoice; 
Shall we ever be happy again T 



207 — 



A leGe'nd of killarney. 



CHAPTER I. 

Exhausted by the fatigue of a long journey in a hot 
September day, we sat at the window of the Kenmarc 
Anns, languidly looking into the High-street of Killarney, 
and scarcely noticing the groups of idlers who passed be- 
fore us. Never did weary traveller rest in more comfortable 
quarters, and never did he obtain good fare and civility on 
more reasonable terms. 

'^Well," said I to our host, as he entered, " what suc- 
cess? Have you secured a good boat's crew for the morn- 
ing?" 

*'Yes,^ir,'^ replied the landlord, (whose reply, had he 
been an Irishman, I should not have ventured to put on 
paper, as I abhor an Englishman's caricature of the brogue, 
while I adore the animated sketches of a Morgan or an 
Edgeworth.) *' Yes, sir; the very best cockswain, four 
good rowers, and above all, Serjeant Spillane, whose bugle 
charms every stranger that comes amongst us." 

* 'That's well," said I; "let all be in readiness early in 
the morning ; fishing-tackle to catch salmon, a gun to rouse 
the echoes, and plenty of provisions for the crew." 

**Certainly, sir," said the host, who still seemed inclined 
to linger. "Fom have been fortunate, for there is not a 
boat now disengaged. There is a young gentleman below, 
sir, who seems very anxious to go on the lake to-morrow ; 
and I believe he'll be obliged to stay at home." 

^'We have been fortunate indeed, then." 

*'Yes, sir. But, as I was saying to the young lad; 



—238— 

(a coliege lad, I tak€ it, from England, ) if, noir, any one 
wbo has a boat would let you join him — " 

" Well," said I laughmg, ''I see your drift; what is 
your young friend like ?" 

**0h! quite a gentleman! pale, and thin, and very 
genteel." 

After a moment's consultation with my companions, it 
was decided that we could not be so unsociable as to refuse 
accomnptodation to a young fellow-countryman, wandering, 
like ourselves, in search of the picturesque; and, moreover, 
pale, thin, and very genteel. W e therefore desired the land- 
lord to inform the young man that we should be happy if 
he M'ould join our party. 

The next morning was as beautiful and as bright as any 
that ever dawned upon a tourist ; and without those too 
frequent accompaniments to a party of pleasure, umbrellas, 
cloaks, and changes of hose, we hastened to Ross Castle, 
the place of embarkation, not a little anxious to see our 
companion. 

He was, indeed, pale and thin, and thoroughly wliat I 
believe the ladies call inteiesting. He blushed as he bowed lo 
us, and he seemed reserved, but yet there was no awk- 
wardness, no mauraise honte in his manner. 

We spoke to him at first frequently, and he always 
answered with politeness, but it was merely an answer 
that he uttered; and, as he never volunteered an observa- 
tion, we soon relapsed into silence : indeed, I could not 
help thinking, as he turned from me, and leant over the 
side of the boat, gazing on the deep clear water, that there 
was a something in the curl of his lip which seemed to 
say, ' how can you teaze me with common-place renoarks 
amid such scenes as these ! 'I 



— 289 — 

I perceived that the boatmen thought him yery stupid, 
and 1 confess I began to be of their opinion, when I saw 
him recline for hours silently looking on the water, the 
sky, or the holly and arbutus trees that crowned the rocks. 

At length, after passing up the romantic narrow stream 
that unites the upper and lower lakes, we approached the 
Eagle's Nest, and Spillane blew a loud blast on his bugle. 

The few wild notes were beginning to die away , when, 
far off upon the mountain, those notes were repeated! — 
and again ! and again ! and again ! — far, far away, as if in 
some deep unseen recesses, those few wild notes were re- 
peated more faintly, until all was again silent. 

One of the boatmen began to speak, but our palei com- 
panion, who was standing with distended eyes, and lips 
apart, seized him by the [arm and murmured ''silence^ in 
a deep agitated voice ; nor did he relax his hold, and change 
his posture until the last faint echo had long been hushed. 
He then passed his hand hastily over his eyes, threw him- 
self into his old place in the boat, and relapsed into his 
former stupid-looking attitude. Whenever we paused to 
catch a fine view of the lakes, or to listen to one of the 
echoes, he was all animation ; but when the boatmen told 
us to look at one rock because it resembled a man-of-war, 
or at another, because it was like a cannon, he did not deign 
to turn his head towards these wonders. 

We lauded at Glenaa Island, where we dined ; but our 
pale companion was invisible during the repast ; he seemed 
to prefer rambling by himself; and when we hailed him, 
that we might re-embark, he hastily concealed a little book 
and a pencil, and once more sat silent by my side. 

Towards evening, as we were slowly coasting the Tur^ 
lake, the cockswain pointed out various fantastically shaped 



—240— 

rocks, designating one as O'Dognohoe's Eagle, anolher as 
O'Dognoboe's Cloisters, another as O'Dognohoe's Wine 
Cellar. 

"This O'Dognohoe seems to have been a person of ira- 
poiiance here," said I ; *Hell me who he was, or show him 
to me." 

"We shall not see him, sir, to-night, it's to be hoped," 
said the oldest boatman of the crew, with that nationally 
characteristic expression, which, as I said before, I dare 
not imitate. He informed me that O'Dognohoe had, in 
his time, been a chieftain of gigantic statme, who per- 
formed all sorts of wonderful feats. That his shade still 
haunted the lakes, and regularly paid them a visit once in 
seven years, >valking on the water, dressed in white with 
a big three-cocked hat. He himself had been the last 
living person favoured with a glimpse of the spirit, which 
event happened just fourteen years before., 

Our pale companion was now listening intently. * 'Four- 
teen years!" he exclaimed, "and he visits the lake every 
seventh year; he has been here once since you met him, 
and we have a chance of meeting him to-night !" 

The suggestion of tliis possibility seemed by no means 
to giatify the old man, who told us that whoever had the 
luck to meet O'Dognohoe was sure to meet mischance 
afterAvards. 

**And," said I, "can no one tell me more of O'Dogno- 
hoe ? Had he no mistress ? Is there no love story con- 
nected with these beautiful lakes ?" 

The old boatman had no story for me, and though he 
dwelt much upon the certain fact of his having seen this 
^ame O'Dognohoe, the meeting seemed to have taken place 
to little purpose. 

" What, " cried the pale lad, " have you no legends? 



For shame ! — there ought to be — There must be a legend 
connected with every lovely bay, every green island, every 
bright waterfall that ^ve have passed this morning ; the 
very echoes prattle of romance ! who can listen to those 
unearthly responses, without imagining that he hears the 
revelry or the wailings of the guardian spirits of the moun- 
tain and the lake? " 

** True, " I replied ; *' yet these fellows can only talk 
of O'Dognohoe, without even giving us his history ! I shall 
be sorry to go hence without hearing one legend of Kil- 
larney. " 

Our pale companion blushed as he replied: ** If you can 
be content with an Englishman's method of telling sen 
Irish tale, / will venture to give you one. " 

CHAPTER II. 

There was once upon a time, near the western coast of 
Ireland, a romantic valley inhabited by a few peasants, 
whose iiide cabins were surrounded by the most luxuriant 
trees, and sheltered by mountains rising almost perpen- 
dicularly on every side. Ireland has still many beautiful 
green vales, but there is not one so deeply, so secuiely 
nestled among the hills, as the one of which I speak. Add 
the depth of the deepest of these lakes to the height of the 
loftiest mountain that towers above us, and you may then^ 
form some idea of the deep seclusion of this forgotten 
valley, 

Norah was the prettiest girl in the little village. She 
was the pride of her old father and mother, and the ad- 
miration of every youth who beheld her. The cottage of 
her parents was the neatest in the neighbourhood : Norah 
knew how to make the homeliest chamber look cheerful, 



and the honeysuckle round the casement was taught by her 
hand to twine more gracefully than elsewhere. 

There was hot one spring of water in this valley ; it was 
a little well of the brightest and clearest water ever seen, 
vA-hich bubbled up from the golden sand, and then lay 
calmly sleeping in a basin of the whitest marble. From 
this basin, there did not appear to be any outlet; the water 
ran into it incessantly, but no one could detect that any 
part of it escaped again ! It was a Fairy well 1 

In those days there w^ere Fairies ! so says the legend, and 
so says Crofton Croker, that inimitable historian of the 
Jiflle people of Ireland in the olden time : ours it not a 
gtory involving in its detail national habits and charac- 
teristics ; on such ground who would dare to compete with 
HIM ? Not I. 

To return to the well : it was, as I said before, a Fairy 
well, and was held in great veneration by the inhabitants 
of the valley. 

There was a tradition concerning it which had time out 
of mind been handed down from parent to child. It was 
covered with a huge stone, which, though apparently very 
heavy, could be removed with ease by the hand of the 
most delicate female ; and it was said to be the will of the 
Fairy who presided over it, that all the young girls of the 
village should go thither every evening after sunset, remove 
the stone, and take from the marble basin as much water 
as would be sufficient for the use of each family during 
the ensuing day ; above all, it was understood to be the 
Fairy's strict injunction that each young maiden, when she 
had filled her pitcher, should carefully replace the stone; 
if at any time this were to be neglected, the careless 
maiden would biing ruin on herself, and all the inhabitant^ 



-243-. 

pf the valley ; for if the morning sun ever shone upon the 
water, inevitable destruction would follow. 

Often did Norah trip lightly to the well vvith her pitcher 
in her hand, singing the wild melodies of her country, 
with her beautiful hair decorated with the bright red 
berries of the mountain-ash, or the ripe fruit of the 
arbutus tree, and leaning over the bubbling spring, fill her 
pitcher, carefully replace the stone, and return to her 
parents without one sad thought to drive away sleep from 
her pillow. 

This, could not last for ever : Norah was formed to be 
beloved, and soon a stronger youth came to the valley, — a 
soldier— one who had seen the world. He was clad in 
armour, and he talked of brighter scenes: ah! could there 
be a brighter scene than that lone valley ? He dazzled the 
poor girl's eye, and he won her heart ; and when she went 
at sunset to fetch water from the fairy well, Coolin was 
always at her side. 

Her old parents could not approve of such an attach- 
ment. The young soldier's stories of camps and courts 
possessed no charms for them, and when they saw that 
JSorah loved to listen to him, they reproved their child for 
the first time in their lives, and forbad her in future to 
meet the stranger, She wept, but she promised to obey 
them, and, that she might avoid a meeting with her lover, 
she went that evening to the well by a diiferent path to 
that which she had been accustomed to take. 

She removed the stone, and having filled the pitcher, 
she sat down by the side of the w ell and wept bitterly. 
She heeded not the hour : twilight was fast fading into 
^he darkness of night, and the bright stars which studded 
the heavens directly over her head, were reflected in the 
tiry^tal fountain at her feet. 



■244- 



Her lover stood before her. 

** Oh ! come not here," she cried,*' come not here ; I have 
promised not to meet you : had I returned home when my 
task was done, we never should have met! I have been 
disobedient; oh ! why did I ever see you? you have taught 
me how to weep! " 

** Say not so, dearest Norah, " replied the young soldier ; 
** come with me. " 

*' Never! never ! " she emphatically exclaimed, as she 
hastily arose, and advanced from the well. *' I, who never 
broke my word, have broken it to-night ! I said I would 
not meet you and we have met. " She uttered this in an 
agony of tears, walking wildly forwards, whilst Coolin, 
with her hand clasped in both of his, Avalked by her side 
endeavouring to pacify her. 

" Your fault, if it be one, " said he, kindly, ** was in- 
voluntary : your parents will forgive you, and when they 
know how tenderly I love you, they will no longer reject 
me as their son. You say you cannot leave them; well, 
well ; I perhaps may stay here, may labour for them and 
for you. What is there I would not resign for my Norah? 
You are near your home, give me one smile ; and now, 
dearest, goodnight." 

Norah did smile upon him, and softly opening the 
wicket, stole to her own chamber, and soon fell asleep, 
full of fond thoughts of the possibility of her parents' sanc- 
tion to her lover's suit. 

She slept soundly for several hom^s. — 

At last, awaking with a wild scream she started from her 
bed. "The well! the well!"she cried, "I neglected to replace 
the stone ! It cannot yet be morning. — No — no — no, the gray 
dau n is just appearing : 1 will run| I shall be in time. " 



-245- 

As she flew along the well-known path, the tops of the 
eastern hills were red with the near approach of sunrise. 
Is that the first sunbeam that gilds yonder mountain? 
No ! it cannot be — she will yet be in time ! 

Norah had now reached a spot from whence, looking 
downwards she could see the well, at the distance of a few 
hundred yards. She stood like a statue ; her eyes were 
fixed ; one hand grasped her forehead, with the other she 
pointed forwards. So suddenly had amazement arrested 
her flight, that her attitude retained the appearance of 
motion : she might have passed for the statue of a girl 
running, but she was motionless. The unclouded morn- 
ing sun was shining brightly on the spot : the spring, once 
so gentle, was now sending forth a foaming torrent, which 
was rapidly inundating the valley. Already the alarmed 
villagers were rushing from their cabins, but TSorah did 
not move : her hand was still pointed towards the spot, but 
she appeared unconscious of danger. 

Still the foaming torrent poured forth, and the water 
approached the spot where she stood : Coolin, who had 
been seeking her every where, now ran towards her : his 
ftiolslep roused her, and, crying, "My parents! save them!" 
she fell at his feet 

He bore her in his arms up a hill which was near them : 
still the torrent raged behind them : still the vast flood 
became wider and deeper. 

When they reached the summit of the hill, it appeared 
to be a wooded island ; water surrounded them on every 
side, and their resting-place became gradually smaller and 
smaller. 

Many other green islands were to be seen, some less ex-* 
lensive than that on which they had found a temporary 



—246— 

»ecu ity; and lliese gradually grew smaller and smaller, 
and vanished one by one. 

"Oh! that we were on the summit of yon mountain j" 
said Coolin; and kissing IS orah's pale cheek, he cried, "Is 
there no hope ? my poor girl, my own dear love !" 

* ' My parents ! — my parents ! " — exclaimed Norah, 
** where are they ? — Oh! they have perished, the victims of 
their only child's disobedience !" 

Clasped in each other's arms the lovers awaited their 
doom. The waters still rose higher and higher — the island 
became indistinct — it was a speck — it was gone ! 

The cause of the calamity having expiated her error, 
the wrath of the Fairy was appeased. The waters rose no 
more ; but the beautiful valley of the Fairy well now lies 
buried under the clear waters of the L\ke of Killarney. 



Our companion had warmed with his subject ; he was 
no longer pale, and so well had we performed our parts as 
listeners, and so evident was the interest we had felt in 
the tale, that a mutual good understanding was at once 
established between us. The youth had proved himself 
not to be the stupid nonentify we had supposed him; and 
he, having observed our fixed attention, condescended to 
believe that we were not the mere feasting, idle^party-o/- 
pleasurists he had thought us. 

We at last became quite sociable, nay, almost con- 
fidential : as we proceeded homewards, he drew from his 
pocket the little book which he had before taken such 
pains to conceal ; though diffident in the glare of noon- 
day, he was self-possessed in the twilight ; and when I 
inquired whether the scenery had inspired him, he told 
us he had only been invoking the Fairies. 



—Hi— 

**Thi9 little boek is full of rhymes," said he ; "they 
are not worth showing." To avoid further solicitation, 
however, he read us the following stanzas : 

Oh 1 where do Fairies hide their heads 

When snow lies on the hills; 
When frost has chill'd their mossy beds* 

And crystalized theic rills P ~ 
Beneath the moon they cannot trip 

In circles o'er the plain> 
And draughts of dew they cannot sip 

Till green leaves come again* 

Perhaps in small blue diving bells 

They plunge beneath the waves. 
Inhabiting the wreathed shells 

That lie in coral caves : 
Perhaps in red Vesuvius 

€arousal they maintain. 
And cheer their little spirits thus 

Till green leaves come again. 

When they return, there will be mirth 

And music in the air, 
And mystic rings upon the earth, 

And mischief every where J 
Tbe maids, to keep the elves aloof. 

Will bar the doors in vain ; 
Ko key-hole will be Fairy proof 

When green leaves come again. 

; That night we parted with our companion. He was 
to rise early the following morning to proceed in search 
of fresh beauties, and we were to return to the city of 
Cork. I never part with one who has accidentally been 
my companion in a pleasant excursion without a me- 
lancholy feeling : we have been by chance shuffled to- 
gether ia the pack of human beings once in our lives, and 



-248- 

the chances of the game are much against our ever finding 
ourselves dealt face to face upon the same board again ; 1 
therefore shook hands with him with regret, and never 
expected to see him more. 

My sensibiliiy, however, was thrown away ; six months 
after, I discovered him leisurely taking a slice of the joint 
at the Athenaeum club, and at his elbow was a cruet con- 
taining half a pint of sherry. He studies Law atGray's- 
inn, writes for periodicals, patronises poet's corner, and is 
to be seen almost daily at the Athenaeum, at six o'clock, 
occupying the table to the left of the entrance door. 



THE ARABIAN STEED. 



'*A steed ihat knows his rider." 
Byron. 

Ada was the daughter of a powerful Rajah, who, in the 
reign of the Emperor Akbar, dwelt in a superb palace on 
the banks of the Jumna. 

The Rajah was proud of his beautiful child, and loved 
her, as far as his stern nature was susceptible of such a 
passion. But the duties of his situation, and his warlike 
pursuits called hini frequently from her ; and much of the 
dark- eyed Hindoo's time was spent in dreary solitude amid 
the gardens of her father's palace. 

Beautiful as those gardens were, sparkling with gilded 
pavilions, the air cooled with silver fountains, and ren- 
dered fragrant by the odour of every rare plant, still tlic 
perpetual solitude wearied her, the society of her female 



— 249 — 

attendants failed to interest her, and as she reclined beneath 
the pendant branches of a date tree, she sighed, and felt 
more like a prisoner in a cage, than a princess in the plea- 
sure-garden of her palace. 

She had dismissed her attendants, and lay thoughtfully 
leaning her head upon her hand, when a rustling amid 
the branches of an orange tree attracted her attention, 
and she started to her feet in an instant with an exclama- 
tion of alarm and surprise, as she distinctly saw among the 
clustering leaves and blossoms, the bright eyes and dark 
glowing features of a man. 

The branches hastily parted, and a young Mahomedan 
rushing forward knelt before her. 

*' AVho art thou?" she exclaimed, '^ mercy — mercy — I 
am defenceless — spare me !" 

"Mercy," replied the Moor, '* 'tis /must crave mercy of 
you : I am defenceless fair lady. I am at your feet and in 
your power." 

**What brought you here?" she replied, ''know you 
not the danger?" 

**A danger I have brared too often to heed it for an 
instant now." 

'•Often ! — what mean you ?" 

"Daily at this hour, the hour of your solitary ramble, 
have I entered these gardens, daily have I lurked behind 
the shrubs that surround your favourite bower, daily have 
I gazed on you unseen." 

Oh cruel — for what purpose?" 

"My purpose! madness— death !" 

"Death? to me who never wronged you,, who never 
injured a human being ?" 

"To yoUf Lady — no, no— not to you — I would not harm 
you for the world." 



— 2^0 — 

*^Death to whom then ?" 

«*To myself." 

** Why--what brought y6u here ?" 

** Accident, or perhaps idle curiosity first brought mc 
here ; and I looked on you for the first time : need I say 
why daily, after I had once beheld you, I came again ?" 

**Ohj if you are seen," cried Ada, ''nothing can save 
you from my father's rage ; you know the barrier, the 
awfulj impassable barrier thatjdivides your race from mine. 
■• — Madman, begone !" 

The young Moor, whose face and form were such as 
might have been chosen by a sculptor who wished to re- 
present the perfection of Eastern beauty, spoke not — moved 
not : — he continued kneeling before the agitated, girl, while 
his dark brilliant eyes fixed upon her countenance seemed 
eagerly to read its varying expression, that memory'might 
have a store of sweet thoughts to live upon, when the rea- 
lity should no longer stand before him. 

Ada could not bear the earnest gaze of those fond eyes ; 
where was her anger, her indignation at the intrusion of 
the stranger ? — gone ! She called not for her attendants ; 
no, she trembled lest they should come. 

"I await my doom," at length murmm*ed the intruder, 
'**I scorn to fly : my dream of secret love is over ; my .stolen 
watchings, so dear though so hopeless, are at an end : you 
will call your father's guards, and I shall die." 
**No, no — you shall not die — not if Ada can savei you : i 
will not call ihem, no, I dread their coming.". 

*'Then you forgive my boldness?" 

**Yes — only begone — save yourself, "- 

* 'Shall we meet again ?" 

"Never!" 



— 2:) I — 

**Then I will stay and die; better to die here, at your 
command, in your presence, than to go hence and linger 
out a life of hopeless love, never beholding you again." 

Poor Ada had never been before adressed m love's o%vn 
language. Her hand had been sought by princes and no- 
bles, who, secure in her father's sanction, had addressed her 
in terms of admiration, but whose looks and accents wei e 
cold and spiritless when compared with the ardour of the 
of the youthful lover who knelt before her. 

"For my sake, if not for your own, go," she cried. 

** llien we may meet again ?" 

' * Yes, only leave me now ; you know not half your peril. 
To-morrow is the annual festival in honour of Vishnu, I 
shall be there, and will contrive to speak to you ; — Hark !'' 

She pointed to the orange trees. A footstep was heard 
at a distance. The Moor grasped her hand, pressed it to 
his lips, and was lost among the orange blossoms just as 
the cliief officer of the Rajah entered the bower to inform 
Ada that her father desired her presence. She cast one 
anxious glance around her, breathed more freely when she 
found that her lover lay unsuspected in his fragrant ambush, 
and followed by her attendants, returned to the palace. 
There was no festival in Hindostan so splendid as that ce- 
lebrated annually in honour of Yishj i in the province over 
which the Rajah was governor. The gardens on the bank* 
of the Jumna were splendidly decorated for the occasion, 
and at noon were filled with crowds of persons, all eager 
in their various situations either to see, or to be seen ; to 
pay due reverence to Vishnu, or to be duly reverenced. 

Kettle drums sounded, golden armour glistened, downy 
feathers waved in costly turbans ; cavaliers baring silver 
battle axes rode proudly on their prancing milk-white 

17 



— 252 — 

Steeds, and princely ladies were borne in glittering palan- 
keens on the backs of elephants. 

Ada was there, pale and sad ; her stolen mysterious in- 
terview with her unknown lover was so recent, so unex- 
pected, so unlikely to end happily, that she lay on her rose 
colour cushions, fanned by her favourite slave, without 
taking the trouble to draw aside the ambei' curtains of her 
litter to look upon the festivities \vhich surrounded her. 

Towards evening the gardens were illuminated with 
thousands of many coloured lamps; she raised herself and 
looked around her, but glancing hastily over bright vistas 
and radiant bowers, her eyes rested on a wide spreading 
tree beneath whose overshadowing branches a compara- 
tively dark space remained. She there saw the form of her 
unknown lover : he was leaning against the tree, with his 
eyes fixed upon her ; she told her slave with assumed levity 
that she had vowed to gather a cluster of the blossoms of 
thatteee, alone to gather them, and desiring her to await 
her return^, she hastened beneath the canopy formed by 
its boughs. 

Selim was indeed there. 

** Speak not," she earnestly whispered, **I must not stay 
for an instant,! dare not listen \oyou — but markm/ words, 
and if you love me obey them :— Ido not doubt your love, 
I do not doubt your constancy, but I shall appear to doubt 
both when you hear my request." 

** Speak, lady, I will obey you," said the Moor. 

** Go," whispered Ada, "buy the swiftest of Arabian 
steeds, ride him across yon plain three times in every day ; 
in the morning, at noon, and in the evening ; and every time 
you ride him, swim the Jumna on his back." 
*' Is that all, " said Selim, ''it shall be done;" 



—253- 

** It /^ all ;'* replied Ada, ' 'to prove your LavE you will 
I know readily do it, but to prove your Constancy, or 
rather to ensure our safety, it must be done three times 
every day for the space of one year !" 

"A year 1" 

** Yes, and at the expiration of the year, at this festival, 
on this very day, if neither courage nor constancy have 
been wanting, meet me again on this spot :-^I can wait for 
no reply— ^bless you, bless you i" 

Ada, with a few leaves of the tree in her trembling 
hand, hastened back to her palankeen, and Selim, again 
alone, gazed from his shadowy hiding place on the gay 
festival, in which his eyes beheld one form alone. How- 
brief seems the retrospect of one year of happiness I How 
sad, how interminable seems the same space of time, in 
anticipation^ when we know that at its close some long 
looked for bliss will be obtained, some cherished hope 
realised ! 

Sclim bought a steed, the "whitest and the swiftest of the 
province, and he soon loved it dearly, for it seemeclto be 
a living link connecting him with Ada. 

He daily three times traversed the valley, and thrice he 
forded the deep and foaming river ; he saw not his love, he 
received no token from her; but if his eyes did not deceive 
him, he occasionally saw a female form on the summit of 
her father's tower, and a snow-white scarf was sometimes 
>vaved as he speeded rapidly through the valley. 

To Ada the year passed slowly, anxiously : often did 
she repent of her injunction to the Moor, when the sky was 
dark and stormy, and when the torrents from the mountains 
had rendered the Jumna impetuous and dangerous. Then 
<►» her kncss on the Rajah'§ tower, she wonld watch foi^ 



her iover, dreading at one moment lest fear should make 
him abandon both her and the enterprize; and then praying 
that he might indeed forsake both rather than encounter tlie 
terrors of that foaming flood ! Soon she saw him speed- 
ing from the dark forest; he plunged fearlessly into the 
river; be bulletted ^ts waves; he gained the opposite 
shore : again and again she saw him brave the difficulty, 
again he conquered it, and again it was to be encountered. 
At length the annual festival arrived, the gardens were 
adorned with garlands, and resounded with music and glad- 
ness ; once more, too, Selim stood beneath the shadow of 
the wide spreading tree. 

He saw crowds assemble, but he heeded them not; he 
heard the crash of cymbals and the measured beat of the 
kettle drums. The Rajah passed near him, with his officers 
and armed attendants, and these were followed by a troop 
of damsels ; then came Ada, the Rajah's daughter. She was 
no longer the trembling bashful girl he had seen at the 
former festival. Proudly and self-possessed she walked the 
Queen of the procession, her form glittering with a king- 
dom's wealth of diamonds. Selim's heart sunk within him 
—"she is changed, she will think no more of me 1" he invo- 
luntarily exclaimed. But at that moment her dark eye 
glanced towards his hiding place. 

She spoke to her attendants, and the procession paused 
while she approached the tree alone, and affected to gather 
some of its leaves. 

'* Are you faithful?" said she, in a low tone, "nay — I 
wrong you by the question ; — I have seen that you are so : 
if you have courage, as you have constancy, you are minCj 
and I am yours — hush ! — where is your steed ?" 

Selim held its bridle rein, « 






*' Then in your hands I place ray happiness," gho added, 
"these gems shall be our wealth, and your truth my trust. 
— ^Away ! — away !" 

Selim in an instant bore Ada to the back of his Arabian, 
and e'er the Rajah and his attendants were aware she had 
quitted the cavalcade, swift as the wind he bore her from 
the gardens. 

The pursuit was instantaneous, and uttering curses and 
indignant reproaches; the Rajah and a hundred of his arm- 
ed followers were soon close at the heels of the fugitives. 
**Follow! — follow!" exclaimed the foremost, *'we gain 
upon them, we will tear her from the grasp of the Maho- 
medan. They approach the river's bank ! and turbulent as 
it now is, after the storm of yesterday, they will either 
perish in its waters, or we shall seize them on its brink 1" 
Still they gained upon them ; the space between the pur- 
suers and the pursued became smaller and smaller, and the 
re-capture of Ada seemed certain. 

When, lo ! to the astonishment of those who followed 
him, Selim's well trained steed plunged into the foaming 
torrent, battled bravely with its waves, bore his burthen 
safely through them, and bounding up the opposite bank, 
continued his flight ! 

The pursuers stood baffled on the river's brink ; their 
horses having been trained lo no such feat as that they 
had just witnessed, it would have been madness to have 
plunged amid the eddying whirlpools of the swollen 
Jumna. 



Every tale should have its moral. What then will be 
said of mine, which records the triumph of a disobedient 
child in a secret, unauthorised attachment ;' A teiiipoiaiy 



^256— 

triumph which so rarely leads to happiness t For this 
part of my story I have no apology to offer ; but from the 
little history of Selim and Ada this small grain of moral 
inference may be extracted : — Ladies will do well to try 
the integrity and prove the constancy of their Lovers e'er 
they marry ; and Lovers should endure trials and delays 
with fortitude, and thus prove the unchanginjg truth of theif 
affection. 



RETREINCHMENT, 



Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Ashton had married for 
love ; their union had been unsanctioned by his family ; 
they had mutually decided that riches without affection never 
can produce happiness, and they had emigrated, to stretch 
the capabilities of five hundred per annum to their very ut- 
most limits. 

In such situations vv^oman bears the change much better 
than man ; she has her resources and employments ; she is 
more easily satisfied ; and, above all, she often ioves v> I'h 
an aftection so devoted, so regardless of all selfish feelings, 
that to be with the husband of her choice repays her for 
any privations or inconveniences to which she may be sub- 
jected. 

There is too often a selfishness in the very repugnance 
with which a man sees the partner of his prudential retire- 
ment subjected to privations. He cannot bear to see his 
wife less finely dressed, less elegantly appointed, less os- 
tentatiously attent^ed than her neighbours. 

For six years, Ashton and his young wife resided at 
Boulogne, without any addition to their pecuniary re- 
sources, and without any prospect of a favourable change. 

But though their prospects did not brighten, and their 
cash did not accumulate, those events happened which ge- 
nerally add extensively to the expenditure of a small es- 
tablishment. 

They had four children, and consequently a demand for 
nursemaids, food, and diminutive raiment, often perplexed 
and harassed poor Frederick* He had taken a very small 



I 



cottage, and had very few servants; and though food of all 
kinds, and the wines of the country, were extremely cheap, 
still he found that his income was quite inadequate to supply 
him and his family with all that he had been used to con- 
sider as the mere necessaries of life. 

Mary could have been quite happy and contented, had 
her husband appeared so. She drew, sang, worked, and 
read, and found or made a variety of employments. As the 
demand for small millinery increased, she made little caps 
and frocks, and laughed at her own ingenuity; till she saw 
the husband on whom she doated return home from a soli- 
tary ramble, with a dissatisfied air, and a glance at her 
dress and erripIcymGrit, which plainly spoke his an- 
noyance at seeing her in a station so little equal to her 
merits. 

When Mary was engaged in her little household ar- 
rangements he often rambled alone, and frequently met a 
fashionable-looking young man, who was also always 
without a companion. They looked at each other, and 
passed reluctantly , and at length as Frederick was one day 
watching an English packet, approaching the shore in a 
heavy swell, he observed the unknown standing very near 
him, gazing ©n the same object. He addressed some trivial 
remark to him, which was courteously answered ; instantly 
the flood-gates of conversation were opened, and the new 
acquaintances walked together for great part of the morning. 

When they parted, the stranger gave his name ^'Mr, 
Pilkington," and mentioned his address, and Frederick re- 
turned home much pleased with his ramble. 

The intimacy increased, and Mary frequently heard of 
the pleasant Mr, Pilkinglon : every thing suggested Mr. Pil- 
kington ; all the English news, the rumours of London 



—259— 

politics, ancl Saint James's fashions, came from Mr. Pil- 
kington. 

*'In fact, my love," said Frederick, **you must know 
Mr. Pilkington, for he is so very pleasant, he will be quite 
an acquisition to us. We'll ask Mr. Pilkington to dinner." 

He came — he dined — he pleased^ — and again and again 
Mr. Pilkington was invited, quite in the family way ; and 
Mr. Pilkington always came. He was delighted with Mr, 
and Mrs. Ashton, and the dear little boys, and the dear 
little girls, and after a time he became quite domesticated, 

A christening was in preparation ; and it had often been 
debated between Frederick and Mary, whom they could 
ask to undertake the responsible office of godfather. They 
now unanimously voted for Mr. Pilkington, and he being in 
due form invited to become sponsor, in the most friendly 
manner possible, acquiesced, merely adding a compliment- 
ary stipulation, that the young gentleman should be called 
♦•Pilkington Ashton." 

One night, when Mr. Pilkington retired, he quite acci- 
dentally mentioned that his rascally agent in London had 
neglected to forward to him a rtmittance which had been 
for some time due, 

'*How very annoying!" said Mary ; "you are not seri- 
ously inconvenienced by the delay, I hope ?" 

•* Why, unfortunately," replied Mr. Pilkington, **Ihad 
trusted to its punctual arrival, and have promised to make 
several payments." 

Frederick instantly offered assistance, and after some 
trifling hesitation, Mr. Pilkington borrowed fifty pounds. 

*'I am so glad we were able to oblige him," said Frede- 
rick, "he is such a good fellow — what are you looking for, 
my love ?" 



—260— 

*'l can'lfind my watch," replied Mary; **so very pro- 
voking! I left it on the table — and the servants or the 
children must have meddled with it." 

* 'Go, and look up stairs, you '11 find it by and bye :^^ 
what can I have done with my snuflf-box ?" 

*'Well, now, really there is no depending on servants 
—in England they're bad enough, but here, there's no 
enduring their roguery." 

They next day Ashton called as usual at his friend Pilr- 
kington's lodgings. The landlord looked at him with a 
suspicious eye, and said; '* Mr. Pilkington, indeed ! I 
ought to ask/ow, for you seemed to know him best ; he's 
off, however." 

^'Otf!" 

"Yes, off — here's an honest man, a countryman of your's, 
who calls himself a Bow-street officer, who perhaps has a 
knowledge of you too." 

The officer appeared, and very soon satisfied Frederick. 
Mr. Pilkington, he said, was ontrPilks, a notorious swindler, 
black-leg, 'and pick-pocket ; who once kept a minor Hell in 
the neighbourhood of St. James's-street, and when hotly 
pursued by a gentleman who had lost a large sum to hini, 
and suspected foul play, he discharged a pistol at his pur- 
suer, and committed something very like murder. He pro- 
bably had been informed of the officer's trip to Boulogne, 
and therefore had absconded. 

•'Good (arod !" said Ashton, ''and this man was domes- 
ticated at my house ! W eil, it is fortunate we have only 
lost fifty pounds, and the snuff-box and watch." 

The next evening he went with Mary to lounge for an 
hour on the ramparts ; the moment they appeared, every 
eye was directed towards them, and in whatever part of the 



-26l- 

walk they happened to be, ^^^r^ the crowd inslantly folloAv^ 
ed. For some time they were at a loss to conjecture the 
cause of this unwonted popularity ; but they at length orer- 
heard the following remark :— 

'*That's one of the gang, walking about with his wife ! 
He looks like a vagaborid. He'll be off next." 

Frederick and Mary very soon prepared to cross the 
water, determining to reside at some cheap English town. 

What had hapened to them at Boulogne, might however 
have occurred at any watering place ; had Ashton with equal 
want of caution cultivated the acquaintance of one whose 
character and connections were unknown to him. 

The proximity of Boulogne to the English coast renders 
it a tempting sanctuary for those who require a temporary 
shelter from the consequences of a violation of the laws 
of their own country. Boulogne therefore bears a bad 
name, and many persons who have never been there impute 
to it a worse character than it deserves. 

In the estimation of the writer of these pages, England 
possesses not so pretty or so cheerful a watering place ; and 
as a place of residence, there is no English provincial town 
that can boast of a more respectable or more agreeable s<h- 
ciety. 

The stranger passing through will nat discover this ; res- 
pectability is quiet, and of course he who takes a hasty survey 
of the town will be more likely to meet with the disreput- 
able loud talking swaggerer, than with the man v/ho, 
when designated as '^ gentlemanlike y"^"* is almost always at 
the same time called ^'' quiets 

t Boulogne, in common with other watering places, is 
infested by the Gambler, the Roue, the Bully, the man of 
bad character, and the woman of none , but Boulogne by 
no means claims a monopoly of such personages. 



Boulogne, I have admitted may, be the sanctuary for the 
Swindler^ but it also affords a refuge for the Swindled ; and 
he who by the ignorance of an uneducated attorney, or 
the chicanery of an unprincipled one, finds himself sud- 
denly and frandulentlyl deprived of an income which he 
had every reason to suppose had b,een legally settled upon 
himself, his wife, and his children, may at Boulogne effect- 
ually retrench his expenditure, and live with comfort on 
an Income which in his native country would be inade- 
quate. 

He will at Boulogne find many highly respectable fami- 
lies no doubt circumstanced like himself; others who 
prefer spending a large income in a place where even the 
luxuries of life are cheap ; and others who reside there 
to educate large families at one fourth the expense of En- 
glish education. The average riches of the community 
may however not be large ; nor do rich people go to reside 
at watering places on English ground. One fact respect- 
ing Boulogne may be asserted in its favor ; there is no 
place where the really respectable are more difficult of 
access by doubtful characters. This is one favorable re- 
sult of her bad name; it renders her residents doubly 
cautious, and notoriously disreputable men and women 
have been tolerateti in the best circles of certain English 
watering places, who, for the reason I have named would 
not have been admitted in the best set at Boulogne. Many 
will smile incredulously at this assertion, but nevertheless I 
can assure them that such is the fact, but when I speak of 
the best set, I beg it to be distinctly understood that I do not 
by any means refer to those who make the most display. 

As a watering place, Boulogne is delightful, the bath- 
ing so excellent, the town so gay looking, and so much 



-263-. 

variety in its walks and drives, the views from the ram- 
parts, with the rich strawberry gardens beneath them, the 
pretty sailing vessels on the Liane, the smooth and dry 
sands for riding and driving, altogether I think it almost 
impossible for any one to spend the summer months at 
Boulogne (always supposing him to enjoy the society of 
some few friends) and not afterwards note down that 
summer as having been passed pleasantly. 

Frederick Ashton and his Mary may be excused for 
preferring Boulogne, as a place of residence, to a drawing- 
room floor in the main street of Southbury. But what 
shall we say of those who reside abroad for Fashion's 
sake, or for the purpose of making an excellent income 
adequate to all their reasonable wants, go a degree further, 
and purchase all that is foolish and unreasonable ? 

That man must be tasteless indeed who denies the at- 
tractions of the Continent : the beauties of Nature, the 
works of art, must tempt the enthusiast and the scholar ; 
but he who, because times are bad, forsakes a tenantry, 
suffering like himself, and goes to buy cheap luxuries in a 
foreign land, is selfish and unfeeling. 

A love match without a competency, is as little likely 
to be happy, as an eligible establishment without mutual 
affection. Frederick Ashton had now been married for 
six years, a period which in most instances may be consi- 
dered a fair test of the probable continuance of domestic 
felicity. 

But in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Ashton, it was otherwise : 
they had married on an income infinitely too small to afford 
to either of them a possibility of enjoying the refinements 
to which both had been accustomed. But being removed 
from their former associates, they were less likely to feci 



—264- ♦ 

ihe extent of the sacrifices they were making for each other. 
It is with many people endurable to retrench in prioate; 
but to have that retrenchment detected by a guest, would be 
deemed a serious evil. Sucfh slaves are they to appearances. 

The trial of their patience and their constancy was now, 
however, at hand. 

Their removal from Boulogne was not effeeted without 
some trouble. Five hundred pouuds a year will, alas ! pro- 
duce only two hundred and fifty pounds half yearly, and 
Mr. Pilkington, ( alias Pilks ), having walked off with fifty 
pounds, by the time all just demands were liquidated, 
Frederick's purse was considerably lightened. 

At leghth, however, every thing was settled, and the 
whole family (including the young innocent, who so nar- 
rowly eacaped being branded with the name of Pilkington) 
embarked for Dover. 

Mary was sea sick, so was the nurse, so was Miss 
Ashton aged five years, so was Miss Louisa aged four, ami 
so was Master Freddy aged three. 

Sea sickness is very unbecoming, and this is, therefore, 
an awkward time to introduce the young ladies and gentle- 
men to the reader, but it must be done. ^ e know that 
Venus rose from the sea, but never was a Venus known to 
ascend from the cabin of a steam packet after a tempest- 
uous voyage. 

The youngest twig of Ashton 's olive branches, the God- 
fatherless infant, who must at present be nameless, was 
too youn-g to care much about the motion of the vessel ; and 
being in the habit of * 'muling" (and other things mentioned 
by the immortal Shakspeare) " in its nurse's arms, " in 
all places, and at all times, did the same things inthe Dover 
packet without being seasick. The nurse, however^ now 
**^ muled" et cetera^ as much as the baby. 



265- 



Mary and her first born babes were Hyng stretched on' 
the deck ; and to poor Frederick, therefore, devolved the 
duty of nursing the piccaninny. 

Most men are very unfortunate in their attempts at 
soothing and amusing these miniature representatives of 
manhood. They hold them coarsely, dance them clumsily, 
and talk to them gruffly. Frederik did not succeed in his 
parenlal endearments, and baby squalled incessantly. 

All the passengers looked at him as if they wished him 
overboard, and he began to feel angry with them, and 
with himself, and wilh the unfortunate baby also. 

*' An ill-lempered child, 1 suppose, " said a cross lady. 

'* Not at all, ma'am " said Frederick. 

*' Bickety, 1 presume, " said another, who was ill, 

* * It's the gentleman's fault, " cried another. 

'' You'll kill it, Sir." 

Frederick began to think so too, and yet was half inclined 
to say, * ''If I do, it's my awn, and no business of your's." 

*' It's starving, " said one. 

** Wants its breakfast,'' said another. 

Frederick inwardly agreed with them, and wished 
himself a wet nurse. 

Some ladies, who were sitting in a carriage on the deck, 
put down one of the windows and looked out at him ; he 
endeavoured to hide his face in the baby's flannel overall. 

*• Steward, " cried a lady from the carriage, *' steward, 
pray come here. " And when he obeyed the summons, 
Frederick could make out *^ horrid man — 'vile infant- 
ought not to be allowed — have you no place below for 
that class of people ? — we shall die — have you no female 
steward? send her here — Oh! " 

At length the vessel got into smooth water, Frederick 



— 2G6-- 

delivered up his charge into the arms of the nurse, and 
walked the deck with his haggard, dripping, and dishe- 
velled wife and children. The carriage-door opened, and 
four elegantly dressed females stepped from it, in whom 
he immediately recognised some former acquaintances. 

He could not avoid a recognition, he therefore bowed, 
and they coldly curtsied, and stared at Mary. 

Frederick now felt a degree of annoyance which he had 
never experienced at Boulogne. He saw these people 
attended by servants, and furnished with expensive travel- 
ling cloaks, furs, etc., while his wife had on her oldest 
dress, and was followed by no domestic but the nurse. 

*' Is that your carriage, Mr, Ashton?" said one of the 
Ladies. 

*' We have not a carriage on board, " replied Ashton. 

** Dear, I wish mine was landed also. What inn do 
you patronise ?" 

Frederick evaded the question, and asked her which she 
intended going to ; and having ascertained that point, he 
determined on going to the other house. When they Mreio 
on shore he contrived to escape from the notice of tho. 
other party, and secluded himself with his family in a back 
room at a second-rate inn. 

'* Well, Mary, once more in England : the earlier we 
have the horses in the morning the better. " 

** The horses? " said Mary, *' how do you mean 
to go?" 

Oh ! post, to be sure. I'm very sorry you must put up 
with a hack chaise. It's dreadful, but there's no alternative ?' 

** Nonsense, Frederick, we can't travel post — we can't 
afford it." 

*' How ihen^ in the name of wonder? " 



-^267 — 

*' The stage coach. " 

* ' The stage coach ! What, you ?" 

' ' Yes, to be sure." 

" Oh! impossible." 

Mary, however convinceid him that they must either 
go that ivay, Or stay whcire they were, or else spend on the 
journey the money which they would require for their 
support when they reached their destination. Frederick 
leant back in his chair, the picture of despair, and it was 
not until the dusk ;of the evening that he ventured to the 
coach office* 

As he came so late, he found all the early London 
coaches full< and therefore secured the whole interior of 
one that started at ten for Mrs. Jones ^ and a place for Mr. 
Jones on the roof, the box being engaged. 

The next morning, when he had handed in his wife, the 
nurse, and the children, he looked round and saw his 
fashionable acquaintances gazing at him. He pretended not 
to see them, and was preparing to hide in tb€ coach office, 
^vhen he was hailed by the coachmian. 

** Is Mrs- Jones and the children in? 

He blushed, and was silent. j 

*' Come, Sir, be active if you please, my time's up; this^ 
here's your coat, Mr* Jones, jump up if you please." » 

The Dover coach had proceeded some miles before Uie 
gentleman who occupied the box turned his head to recon- 
noitre his fellow passengers. He was diessed in the ex-- 
trerae of fashion,, and at the first glimpse of his countenance,, 
Ashton recognised an old college friend, a Christchurch, 
gentleman commoner, the Honourable Adolphus St. -5 
George. '■> 

Frederick pulled up the collar of his six-year old box-coat 

18 



—268-^ 

(coeval with his marriage), and buried his face as much as 
possible in a spongy looking seal-skin cap. lii vain ; lus 
honourable acquaintance looked at him eagerly , and having 
raised his glass to dissipate all doubt, he held out his hand 
and hailed him. 

St. George was full of amusing descriptions of his con- 
tinental tour, and therefore it was some time before he 
called on Ashton for any particulars relating to himself. 
At length, however, having exhausted all Parisian arid 
Eoman topics, the Italian Opera, the French Ancles, the 
Louvre, St. Peter's, Cameos, Mosaics, and Eau de Colo- 
gne, he exclaimed — 

*^ By Jove, Ashton, travelling has made you look de- 
vilish seedy ; I don't think Nugee weuld own you for a 
customer. Your collar would' be acceptable in the British 
Museum, as a specimen of the costume of our ancestors." 

Frederick tried to laugh. 

** By the bye," continued St. George, ^^I've some glim- 
mering of a remote recollection of having heard you were 
married just aft^ you left college. Let me see, that must 
be six years ago ; therefore I suppose there are six angelic 
little dittos of your darling at least : so the travelling car- 
riage being full, poor Benedict is wrapped up warm in the 
butler's old coat, and sent off per coach," 

Ashton tried to laugh again. 

** Are we likely to see your carriage on the road?" said 
St. George. **I should so like to be presented to your 
wife ; I mean to have a wife of my own one of these days, 
•when I meet with a belle possessed of plenty of thfe true 
hclle metal ;'-'%oU, my boy, gold— no *4ove in a cottage'^ 
for me." 

The coach fi«<>pped, and to Ashton'iS great relief, Su 



-^269—" 

George got do-nn to procure a biscuit and a glass of sherry. 
'* I must revive exhausted nature* " said he ; *'I yearn for 
sustenanee." 

Ashton was cotnparatively happy in his absence, but he 
paid dearly for his transient composure, when looking 
towards the inn window, he perceived St. George leisurely 
munching his biscuit, and looking through his glass at the 
interior of the coach. 

AVhen he resumed his place on the box, he said— 
*' My clear Ashton, I've seen such a sight— such an im- 
portation from Paradise-row ; you're a married man, and 
would have known how to appreciate it ; even poor unini- 
tiated single I by myself, I thought it vastly moving." 
*' What do you mearf?" 

** Why, the interior of this vehicle-^the hymeneal Fly, 
licensed to carry an unlimited number of babes and suck- 
lings. Don't look serious, I mean no disparagement to the 
*double, double toil and trouble' state ; on the contrary, 
what I've seen going on among oui* inside passengers, has 
made me long to be asked in church." 

'* What have you seen?" murmured Ashton. 
** (3h! two nurses — the one dry — the other moist — and 
such babes ! and such squallings ! and such a basket of 
prog ! and a little bottle, out of which the whole party, 
nurses and all, drink by turns." 

The guard now spoke to Ashton, saying, that a Udy had 
her head out of window, and wanted to speak to him. He 
looked down, and saw the basket held out within his grasp: 
though extremely hungry, he called out: ''None I thank 
you ;" and when St.-George congratulated him on the 
friendly ottering which had been extended to, him from 
the travelline; nursery^ he again tried to laugh. 



— 270 — 

The honourable Adolphus St. George began to think that 
his old acquaintance was grown extremely dull and stupid ; 
and inwardly attributing it all to matrimony, he hummed 
an air and did not speak for a whole stage. At length the 
coachman, having helped himself to a pinch of snufF, ofter- 
ed the box first to St.-George and then to Ashton sayings. 

*' Perhaps, Mr. Jones, you'll take a pinch." 

" Jones!" cried St. George, **bless jne! I did not know 
you had changed your name ; my good fellow I congratu- 
late you, for no man would take such a name without acres 
and sacks of good reasons for doing it. Frederick Ashton 
.Tones, that's not so bad ; but Mrs. Jones sounds objection- 
able. Has Mrs. Jones a box at the Opera this season ?" 

«'No." 

** Have you taken a house in town?" 

i* Why— no." 

** Shall you stay at the Clarendon?" 

i' ^^— no." 

*' What house do you patronise?" 

*' 1— really— I— that is -" ' 

** Oh wellyif youVe to be incog, I won't ask another 
question." 

Ashton found that his situation was desperate, and that 
his only chance of avoiding disagreeable topics, was to start 
so many himself as to leave St. George no opportunity of 
taking the lead. He therefore talked of old times, of col- 
lege pleasures, and college pains, and at length became so 
interested that he was surprised when he entered London, 

The coach drove to an inferior hotel in Piccadilly, where 
Ashton intended to remain, and to his consternation he 
found that St. George was to be put down somewhere ehe^. 
and that, therefore, he was not going to leave his post. 



The giiard now addressed him— 

*' Sir, your name's Jones, 1 belicYe." 

*^ No — yes — I mean yes." 

*• Well, Sir, then we drops you here, and if you please, 
there's the insides for Mrs. Jones and the children, and 
one outside, not paid for." 

St. George was evidently listening ! Ashlon made no 
reply, but got off the coach. 

*' Sir, "said the coachman, * 'Here's Mrs. Jones won't 
let any body take out the baby but its papa— we ca'nt stay 
all day here." 

Ashton handed out his whole family and paid the fares. 
He was then obliged to look for every article of luggage, 
and at length, stood in the gutter, with a box in one hand, 
a bag in the other, several cloaks over his shoulder, and 
two umbrellas under his arm. 

As the coach drove off, he saw St. George looking at him 
through his glass, while he gravely bowed and said : 

" Good evening to you, Mr. Jones ; I wish you a merry 
Christmas and a happy new year." 

Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Ashton remained a very short 
time in London, and the visit was to him replete with an- 
noyances. 

Mary wished to go shopping; — how was she to go? 
She could not walkabout in the depth of a December mud; 
and as to a hackney coach, Frederick had never heard of 
any female who confessed having entered one. But 
Mary convinced him that she must either go in a jarvey, 
or stay at home ; and at length, closely veiled, she was 
permitted to go. 

She wished to go the Opera, and Frederick immediately 
offered to pro^cure a box. She remonstrated, and assured 



—^272— 

him that they could not afford to pay six or eight guineas 
for one evening's amusement. He was not aware that 
ladies could go in the pit ; and when at length he consented 
to accompany her there, he sat like a criminal, and shrank 
from the notice of every old acquaintance. They soon 
resolved to leave London, and go and economise at Bath. 

The Ashtons took a small house in New King-street, 
where they lived comfortably enough. But Frederick 
Ashton had not as yet learnt to estimate properly the com- 
forts of life : he still sighed for those refinements and 
superfluities which were now beyond his reach. 

No one called upon them, indeed no one knew who they 
were, nor whence they came ; and without some previous 
introduction, or strong recommendation, it was not likely 
that any established inhabitant of the Crescent or the Circus 
would set off to volunteer a visit to an unknown settler in 
New King-street. 

Frederick was wretched ; he shunned the public walks, 
and the evening amusements, and thus two more years of 
his married life passed away, 

He was devotedly attached to his wife ; but, unfortunately 
his aim seemed to be — not to see her happy, unless he 
could see her happy in the way he had been accustomed to 
consider right and proper. On his return to dinner, after 
his usual lounge at the library, he told Mary that he had 
seen an old college friend. 

** Have you ? " said Mary. **0h! I am so glad! you must 
have been delighted to see him. Will he call on us? " 

' ■ No, he was at some distance — he did not see me. " 

** Not see you!--?you surely went and spoke to him ? " 

"No." 

* * How very odd ! You are always regretting that we 



— 270 — 

have no society here ; I wish you had asked him to dinner.** 

" To dinner, Mary! The impossibility of our inviting 
him, was the cause of my avoiding the meeting. " 

*' What do you mean? " 

** We cannot entertain in such a house as this, — and 
without servants, too-*-impossible. " 

** IVhy impossible, Frederick? Do not let let us say 
so — if your friend discovers the impossibility of visiting you 
in these lodgings, we will then laugh at such friendship, 
and dine without him. " 

** But look at the maid servant, Mary! — no — no— we 
cannot ask any one to visit us. " 

** I am sorry to hear you say so, Frederick ; such thoughts 
and such regrets often occupy your mind, and — pray pardon 
me for saying so — you are wrong— : very wrong — to en- 
courage them. " 

** Nay, Mary, it is for your sake I " 

** No, not for me ; I am happy ; could I see you contented, 
I should never have one sad moment. But when I see you 
annoyed by such trifles, I must remember that I warned 
you of the probability of our having to contend with them, 
before I consented to become your wife. " 

•* Can you doubt my love ? " 

** No, on my honour — I feel certain that were I on the 
bed of sickness, or in actual calamity, you would be ihe 
most devoted nurse, ihe most disinterested participator of 
misfortune. " 

Ashton kissed her, and said : *' I will turn over a new 
leaf, Mary." 

*' And won't you quarrel with your bread and butter 
because a servant maid hands it to you instead of a servant 



^274 

*' ]So, " 

** And won't yoii close your doors against friendship and 
good humour, because you can't aftord to throw them open 
for the admission of three hundred fashionables?" 

**No." 

** Then you will condescend to be happy ?" 

** With you, Mary, I ought to be so ; I will be so." 

And thus, aftpr being married eight years, did Frederick 
Ashton begin to learn that he who weds a portionless girl, 
if not himself independent, must shew at once the sincerity 
of his love, and the extent (|f his good sense, by rendering 
the cottage which they must inhabit, radiant with the s?niles 
of cheerfulness and content. 

If he sighs for the mansion he tw/^^/ have enjoyed without 
her, it is a poor compliment indeed ; and he but flimsily 
veils his own selfishness when he says that it is for her 
sake he covets wealth. 

The portionless girl would have been happier had he 
never offered her his hand : she might have married one 
accustomed to privations, pr one whose industry flight 
have raised her to independence. 



75- 



NEW FACES. 



Oh give me new faces, new faces, new faces ! 

I Ve seen those around me a fortnight or more ; 
Some people grow weary of things or of places, 

But persons to me are a much greater bore ; 
J care not for features^^I *m sure to discover 

Some exquisite trait in the first that you send. 
My fondness falls off when the novelty's over — 

I wjiDt a new face fpr j^n intimate Friend. 

My heart is as genial as Italy's summers, 

Attachments take root, and grow green in a day : 
Like bloom on the plum, there's on all the newcomers 

A charm'^-that must sooner or later decay ; 
The latest arrival seem'd really perfection, 

But now — for some reason 1 can't comprehend — 
She wearies me so, 1 must cut the connection — 

J want a new face for an intimate Friend. 

To-day I may wtter a tender expression 

To one I to-morrow may probably drop ; 
But Friendships should come '''■hot and Ao/,"in succession, 

Just like mutton-pies at a pastrycook's shop. 
The gardener, too, with ne{V crops is provided, 

W hen one crop of marrowfats comes to an end ; 
And vvhy should m/new crop oi Friends be derided ? |H 

J y/ant a new face for an intimate Friend, ' 



— 276 — 

Mamma would persuade me my Friends do not vary, 

But that I have fickle vagaries forsooth ! 
Discernment ought not to be cailled a vagary ^ 

I deem it a virtue precocious in youth. 
"Be civil," she says, **to a common acquaintance, 

Bash Friendships are sure prematurely to end ;" 
Oh ! cold hearts may credit so frigid a sentence ! 

/ vv^ant a new face for an intimate Friend. 

/ am not to blame if I seize the most striking 

And very best points about people at first ; 
/ am not to blame if they outlive my liking, 

And leave me at leisure to point out the worst : 
I am not to blame if 1 'm somewhat less gracious 

To some I so fluently used to commend ; 
To feel that they bore me is really vexatious ! 

I want a new face for an intimate Friend. 

.When Mrs. A. came here, my joy was uncommon, 

I never was happy when not by her side ; 
^*Oh! what an agreeable, sweet little woman ! 

She will be a great acquisition," I cried. 
I called there so often, so fondly I sought her, 

My calling so seldom I fear must offend ; 
But, dear me, she's not half so nice as I thought her ! 

I want a new face for an intimate Friend. 

.When Mrs. B. came, 1 forgot her completely, 

For we became just like two leaves on one stalk ; 
She looked and she spoke so uncommonly sweetly, 

Unless we met daily, how dull was my walk ! 
I thought that her manners were simply enchanting, 

But now— what false colours can novelty lend! — 
A slight indescribable something is wanting ! 

I want a new face for an intimate Friend. 



-277- 

Miss D. was delightful, till Mrs. E. provM her 

By force of comparison flaunting and free ; 
Then came Lady F.— Oh, how fondly I lov'd her, 

Until I was dazzled by dear Mrs, G, ! 
Oh give me new faces, new faces, new faces ! 

Let novelty sweeten each sample you send ; 
A fortnight would rub off all grace from the Graces ! 

I want a new face for an intimate Friend. 



MY PENSION. 



^Vhat, take away my Pension ! a word with you, Lord Grey ; 
You cannot be so barbarous ! you mean not what you say. 
I have enjoyed, for seven years, twelve hundred pounds a year— 
' r was granted me by George the Fourth, how can you interfere? 
/ really hoped you'd think it right to grant me an extension ; 
It never once occurred to me you'd take away my Pension ! 

The thing is so convenient ; you'll force me to retrench — 
Lideed retrenchment will not do, you'll send me to the Bench! 
How can you serve a Lady so ! oh ! if I were a man, 
I'd call you out, my Noble Lord, and end. you with your plan ; 
You might retrench in many little %vays that I could mention, 
But what on earth possesses you to take away my pension 1 

You ask about my services ; but surely to intrude. 

And ask a Lady such a thing, is little less than rude ; 

Of course I could explain to you-^my Lord, I say again. 

If 'twas my pleasure so to do, of course I could explain ; 

Vm sure I've many female friends of vastly less prclention, 

\S lio've met with greater recompense — then don't disturb my Pension. 



—278— 

Reform may all be very proper in a certain line, 

I never can object to it, it's no aiFair of mine ; 

Reform the House of Commons, and correct abuses ihercy 

But (hn't reform my little house in Green-street, Grosvenor-square. 

Don't seize my jewels to allay the popular dissension — 

1 ou can't appease the Radicals with my poor little Pension. 

The Revolutionists abroad have stirr'd up all this fuss, 
Rut can your Lordship tell me what are Paris mobs to us ? 
Rccause the papers bore one so about the row at Rrussels, 
Must English ladies interfere with Foreign people's bustles ? 
Now be assured, my Noble Lord, 'twas folly set the French on; 
i ou really are not called upon to talce away my Pension. 

Propriety might prompt your economical design 

In many cases doubtless — but, believe me, not in mine : 

Were / alone ^ I now mi^ht make a saciifice! 'tis true, 

Rut all my Family, you know, have little pensions too ; 

Ry Rrothers and my Cousins would go mad were I to mention 

The Revolutionary scheme of giving up a Pension ! 

/ think it would be setting an extremely bad example 
In times like these, when people are endeavouring to trample 
On all our ancient usages — and raising such a storm 
About the Place and Pension List, and Radical Reform — 
I say, my Lord, that /should feel deserving reprehension, 
If / — by these intimidated — threw away my Pension. 

Tm quite convinced the only way of setting matters right. 
And making common people see things in a proper light, 
Is keeping up the ancient aristocracy, of course. 
And keeping down plebeians with a military force : 
The Lower Orders really are so dull of comprehension, 
They can't see the utility of granting me a Pension. 



-279- 

The truth is this — (you must not deem these few remarks intrusive) 
The Aristocracy are not sufficiently exclusive : 
They call on Mistress /Aw and ihaty and curtsey at a ball 
To people who, in point of fact, are nobodies at all ! ^ 

/never could perceive the use of smiling condescension- 
It makes the upstarts insolent : they cavil at a Pension ! 

When I am at my country seat, / shun this growing evil, 
No member of the middling ranks presumes td call me civil^j 
/ never call on them, and if one dares pay me a visit, 
She comes in some old-fashioned gown, and I and Laura quiz it ; 
And at the Race-'ball once a year I sit the upper bench on, 
In high unbending dignity, — so /deserve my Pension. 

Now pray, my Lord, consider this, youVe ruined if you grant 

Concessions of the sweeping kind the common people want ; 

The Aristocracy .must not be interfered with thus, 

Pray tell me what are starving individuals to us ! 

To pacify the Radicals, and end all this contention, 

We^U call my little income by some other name than Pension. 

Of course, my Lord, you can retrench ev'ry other way, 
The Clerks in Public Offices may scribble on half-pay ; 
The Captains and the Cornets, and the Curates may be fleeced, 
(The incomes of the Bishops, by the by, should be increased). 
I see YOU are convinced, my Lord, and through your intervention, 
I trust, in spite of Mi^. Hume, you'll let me keep my Pension. 



— -280'— 



THE DRAWmC ROOM. 



I must be presented to day, Lady Susan, 

I must be presented to day ; 
I must be presented, or what will my Cousin 

The Bride, Lady Mackintosh, say ? 
She married a man who was knighted last season, 

For carrying up an address ; 
If she*s a great Lady, there can be no reason, 

My Lady, why / should be less. 

Now pray, Lady Susan, don't say that youVe poorly, 

'Tis plain that you want to withdraw ; 
YouVe married my Brother, and I've a right surely 

To go with my sister-in-law ; 
And though you consider us vulgar relations, 

Some proper repayment there'll be 
For Brother Bob's Diamond a/»6?P€ar/ presentations 

In this presentation of me* 

Look at me, my Lady ; 'tis folly to quarrel. 

You'll own that I'm fit to be seen, 
My yellow silk petticoat loop'd up with l^urel^ 

—So elegant — yellow and green ! 
My train of red satin (so very well chosen— 

'Twill make a pelisse in the spring) ; 
And then my blue feathers ! I'm sure, Lady Susan, 

I must be reniark'd by the king. 



A train may look very magnificent, flowing 

Behind one in folds, I dare say; 
But as for a Hoop ! oh ! I could not bear going 

To Court in that round about way ! 
My lappet's ! so useless! I cannot bear buying 

Three yards*— it is quite a take-in ; 
And why did you laugh when you saw I was tying 

Them gracefully under my Chin ? 

And what must be done when I stand in the presence? 

Pray telj — I rely upon you : 
Must I civilly say, as I make my obeisance : 

*'Your Majesty — how do you do?" 
To be kiss'd by the King ! Lady Susan, assist me, 

I shall :iot be fit to be seen ! 
tWIiaf ! kiss me in public I oh ! when he has kiss'd me, 

I sh'ant dare to look at the Queen ! 



I 



TM3 UNWILLING BRIDE. 

The joy-bells are tinging— oh ! come to the church : 
We shall see the bride pass, if we stand in the porch. 
The bridegroom is wealthy : how brightly arrayed 
Are the menials who wait ou the gay cavalcade ; 
The steeds with the chariots prancing along, 
And the peasants advancing with music and song ! 

Now comes the procession : the bridemaids are there, 

"With white robes, and ribbons, and wreaths in their hair. 

Yon feeble old knight the bride's father must be, 

And now, walking proudly, her mother we see ; 

A pale girl in tears slowly moves by her side : 

But where is the bridegroom^ and where i§ the bride I 



They kneel round the altar — the organ has ceased, 

The hands of the lovers are joined by the priest ;— *■ 

That bond!— which death only can sever again ! '*>"^ 

TV hich proves ever after life's blessing or bane ! 

A bridal like this is a sorrowful sight : 

See I the pale girl is bride to the feeble old knight. 

Her hand on her hnsbandV arm passively lies, 
And closely she draws her rich veil o'er het eyes. 
Her friends throng around her with accents of lovef i 
She speaks not — her pale lips inaudibly move. 
Her equipage waits — she is placed by the side 
Of her aged companion — a sorrowing bride ! 

Again the bells ring, and the moment is come 
For the young heart's worst trial, the last look of hoine t 
They pass from the village--how eagerly still . 

She turns and looks back from the brow orf the hill ! 
She sees the white cottage— the garden she made— ^ 
And she thinks of her lover, abandoned^^bctrayed I 

But who, with arms folded, hath lingered so long 
To watch the procession, apart from the throng ? 
'Tis he I the forsaken ! The false one is gone— 
He turns to his desolate dwelling alone ; 
But happier there^ than the doom that a>vaits 
The bride who must smile on a being she hates ? 



THE ARCHERY MEETING. 



The archery meeting is fixed for the third ; 

The fuss that it causes is truly absurd ; 

I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess, 

And now I must buy each an archery dress! 

Without a green suit they would blush to be seen, 

And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green ! 

Poor fat little Rosa ! she's shooting all day ! 
She sends forth an arrow expertly, they say ; 
But 'tis terrible when with exertion she warms, 
And she seems to me getting such muscular arms ; 
And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she miss'd, 
Prize bracelets could never be clasp'd on her wrist ! 

Dear Bess, with her elegant figure and face, 
Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place ; 
But as for the shooting — she never takes aim ; 
She talks so, and laughs so ! the beaux are to blame 
She doats on flirtation — but oh ! by the bye, 
''Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye ! 

They' ve made my poor husband an archer elect; 
He dresses the part with prodigious effect ; 
A pair of nankeens, with a belt round his waist, 
And a quiver of course in which arrows are placed ; 
And a bow in his hand — oh ! he looks of all things 
Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings ! 

i8 



—284- 

They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas ! 
Must sit on camp stools with our feet in the grass ! 
My Flora and Bessy no partners attract ! 
The Archery men are all cross Beaux in fact ! 
Among the young Ladies some kits there may be, 
But still at my elbow two misses I see ! 



APOLLO AND DAPHNE. 



Apollo from Olympus stray'd, 
Enchanted by a mortal maid, 

Who fled from the intruder, 
Her coyness, as is oft the case, 
But gave new ardour to the chase, 

And so he still pursued her ? 

One year he followed, and she flew ! 
(A life of misery she knew 

An ill assorted match meant.) 
Jove changed her to a laurel tree ; 
And so Apollo's proved to be 

An evergreen attachment ! 

Too deeply rooted may be thought 
Poor Daphne's dread of being caught. 

But do not miss the moral : 
She seems to say ^'receive, young bard, 
*'From woman's praise your best reward. 

From woman's smile your laureV^ 



PROOF OF THE PUDDING, 

A BURLETTA 



IN ONE ACT; 



PERFORMED AT MADAME VESTRIS'S 



OLYMPIC THEATAE. 



r>,/. . ^y J*11S LITTLE DRAiM.V IS INSCRIBED, 
AS A REMEMBRANCE 

or ma:ny pleasant days 

DURING ITS REHEARSAL AND PERFORMANCE 

AT HER ladyship's 

TEMPORARY RESIDENCE 

AT BOULOGNE. 

Boulogne J 31 arch iatl», i833. 



The Burlelta of the Proof of the pudding is founded 
on, and partly translated from, Scribe's '* VateL'''' — The 
character of Mrs, Buxrn is not in the French piece, and 
other alterations and additions have been made, to adapt 
it to the English Stage. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Monsieur Piquet Mr. Bland. 

Theodore Mr. Collier. 

Groom of the Chamhers ...... Mr. Gough. 

Cooks, Scullions, etc. 

Mrs. Bunn Mrs. Glover. 

Patty Bunn Miss Pincott. 



THE PROOF 



OP 



THE PUDDIMG. 



SCENE 

A pastrycook's back parlour, a fourneau on each side of 
the front of the stage. 



Enter Mrs, Bunn and Patty, 
Mrs. Bunn. 
Kow, Patty; bustle, bustle. — Is Mrs. Biggs's Pie baked? 
Is Miss Slop's tea cake gone home ? and Mr. Sykes's bis- 
cuits £?///o .'^ — very well, mark 'em off then. How lam 
bothered! such a deal of business^ and wedding cakes to 
make for Alderman Gobbleton's eldest sonl 

PATTY, 

My dear mother, you worry yourself unnecessarily. 
Mrs. Bunn. 

Unnecessarily ! I only wish you kept the books ! If you 
had my castings up of a morning, you'd be worried too ; 
how people can go tick for penny puffs, / can't think 1 
Here they all come, munch, munch, munch, and then 
**Good morning, Mrs. Bunn, put it down to my account, if 
you please." Then, my dear, what with the French 
mounseers over head, and the hot weather, I shall melt 
away, and I wonder you don't do ditto. 



^290— 

Pattt. 

French Monsieurs ! Oh ! I know you don't wish them 
out of the way, my poor uncle and cousin ! 

m^^k Mrs. BuNN. 

Out of the way! hum! that's quile a toss up, as the 
frying pan said to the pancake : your uncle disparages my 
pastrycookery, I see him sniff at my soups, and sneeze at 
my patties; poor demented man, does he think I want to 
larn his froggery fashions ? Because he is what he calls 
a cuisineer^ he makes game of all I do, hut I'll have no 
quizzing here^ I promise him. What did my sister mean hy 
marrying a foreigner? I'd not have done ditto ^ if there'd 
not heen another man in the world. 

Patty. 

Oh ! you don't know what you might have done in 
sach a predicament. But you know well enough how 
it happen'd ! Before my father married you he went to 
Paris. 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Yes, to get finished in his culiniary edification ! Folly 
and nonsense ! as if people hoil'd and bak'd the better for 
change of air ! I never was finished off in that there 
fashion, and my cakes does just as well, and so does my 
hices, if you come to that, tho' I dont call 'em glass ^ like 
the French people! 

Patty. 

Well, he that as it may, my father staid at whole year 
al Paris, and my aunt married Mr. Piquet, who was after- 
wards head cook to the French king. 



— 291— 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Cook to the King ! hot work that in weather like this ! 
Weil,and now Madame Piquet is gone dead, and Monsieur 
is out of place; his master has left off being King somehow, 
they tell me, and so he is come to England to get a new 
situation; for my part, I hates French messes **veai blan- 
kets, and a la this, and a la that — faugh ! its all la la I 

Patty. 

You don't do yourself justice, mother ; I'm sure when 
my uncle and cousin arrived, you treated them very kindly, 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Oh ! to be sure, for the sakfi of the defunct : I [should 
expect Bunn to rise, if I shut out his kith and kin j and I 
would 'nt have Bunn rise no how ! I said I was glad to 
see 'em, and I'd do ditto noyv; but old Piquet makes such 
a fuss about himself! 

Patty. 

He is very proud of his profession, certainly. 
Mrs. Bunn. 

Proud of being a cook ! ah ! well, he's not wrong there ; 
I have my o(vn proper feelings too, for certainly, after 
eating good things, the next best thing is making them. 
But here I am talking and the wedding cakes not stirred, 
and the paHs not butter'd , and then there's the ordinary dinner 
upstairs at two o'clock, and it's clean tablecloth day; I 
likes to do the thing genteel and always gives a clean 
tablecloth once in three weeks; and then them bad debts 
^)reysupon my poor mind; four pence to Master Stripes at the 



—292-- 

school over the way ! I know I shall never get the money : 

that's the way one's profits are eaten up ! There's a 

customer in fhe shop. How I am' bustled! (^As she goes out.) 
I beg your pardon, two pence a piece, Miss. 

( Exit. ) 
Patty. 
How my mother- can wish our French friends gone, I 
can't imagine ! At all events, I am sure my cousin Theo- 
dore is no trouble ; indeed his company is rather a pleasure 
than otherwise. Heigh ho ! I wish he'd dwell with me 
for ever ! 

Air, Dwell with me: by A Lee* 

Come dwell with me, 
And our home shall be 
A little shop, where the people stop. 
To purchase tarts, or nice cakes for tea; 
At my bow window shall be seen 
ii JL Twelfth cakes adorned with King and Queen. 
The school boys, as they pass along, 
Shall loiter there (extremely wrong) [ 
Then dwell with me, etc. 

No bhop in Town shall equal mine 
For ginger pop, or currant wine. 
If folks take shelter from a show'r , 
They'll find hot soups at any hour. 
Behind the counter I will sit, 
And smile whenever I think fit, 
'Twin be my pride to hear tbem say : 
•*Your cakes are charming" — Ma'am good day. 
Then dwell with roe, etc. 

{Enter Theodore,^ 

Theodore. 

My prelty cousin , what a pretty song : 



Patty. 

Oh ! don't say so, Theodore, you foreigners think nothing 
of simple English singing. 

Theodore. 
Indeed youVe very much mistaken. Besides / am half 
English, you know : M/ Mother, your aunt,'was an English- 
woman, and you perceive, I hope, by our accent, that both 
my Father and myself have made English our home lan- 
guage. 

Patty. 

Yes, indeed, you both speak English like natives. Oh 
dear ! I wish you were an Englishman ! 

Theodore. 

Why so, Patty? 

Patty. 

Because you will be leaving us so soon ! 

Theodore. 

Will that grieve you? I need not return alone ^ you know ; 
perhaps you will come with me ? won't you? 

Patty. 
Oh ! Theodore , you're jesting. 
Theodore. 

No indeed. I must take back a pretty little English wife, 
and I've seen no one like my Cousin. 

Patty. 

No, no, Theodore, that grand man your Father.... He's 
so great a man, he is quite a Grand Father! what would 
he say? I am sure he expects you to form some splendid 
alliance. 



—294— 
Theodore. 
Splendid alliance fo; a Cook's son? 

Patty. 
Oh don't laugh ; he has such magnificent ideas ! and I 
am sure thinks himself as great as the great Mogul ; even 
you, when in his presence, seem quite a different person ! 
you seem to grow grand too ! 

Theodore. 

1 sometimes humor him certainly, for his follies are 
harmless ones. I do hope he has at last obtained a situation. 
The French Ambassador wants a head cook, and I believe 
my Father has a chance of the appointment. 

Patty. 
Tell me, Theodore, how it is that your Father is so 
milike you. He is so proud \ You are as meek as a mouse. 
Why is he proiid ? 

Theodore. 

Why? Oh! it is) not easy to' say — but if I must give a 
reason, it is, 1 think, because his name is '* Piquet. " 

Patty. 

** Piquet" — Dear me — But then your name is Piquet 
too! You are not proud ? 

Theodore. 

Oh ! but my Father thinks me mean-spirited, a sort of a 
blight nipped in the bud, and fallen from the family tree. 

Patty. 

Family tree? fiddle de dee]! as if nobody had family 
trees but himself! ]\] other's got a big oi chard of them on 
the Edgeware road, where the baking applet grow. 



Theodorc. 

My lillle Patty, you know my Father is ahvays talking 
©f his illustrious anjcestojr. 

Patty. 

Well, my aunfs sis ier ^f>raiS your Mother don't laugh! 

Theodore. 

I mast at your simplicity. My Father is proud of his 
Great Grand Father. 

Patty. 
Well, and what was he ? 

Theodore. 
A Cook. 

Patty. 

Dear me! then he need not trouble himself to carry his 
pride so far back. He^s a cook too, and what's more, ivas 
a King's Cook. 

Theodore. 

Aye, but the Cook of Cooks of the Family was the 
Great Grand Father. He was a man ! when he died there 
was a general mourning, a national consternation. 

Patty. 
Indeed ! 

Theodore 
Yes— he died the same day with the reigning Queen, 
which possibly may in some degree account for it ; and he 
died on the field of Glory. 

Patty. 
The field of Glory! 



—296 — 
Theodore. 
Yes. His field of glory, the kitchen. 

Patty. 
Died in the kitchen ! 

^ Theodore. 

Yes, on the day of a grand dinner,... his reputation was 
at stake, the fish did not arrive in time, he threw himself 
upon the point of his own spit — he died. 
Patty. 
iWell ! that was a pretty kettle offish, I am sure ! 
Theodore. 

Yes, and if he had hut waited with a little patience , all 
would have heen well! But as you delicately hint, my 
father is very queer at times. Having borrowed your mo- 
ther's extra kitchen, he keeps me there listening to lectures 
all day long ! My love for you, Fatty, gets me into sad 
scrapes : I brown'd a dish yesterday which ought to have 
been white : he expected a Blonde, and I took bun a 
Brunette. 

Patty. 

He is very busy to day, is he not ? I never smelt such 

nice smells ! 

Theodore. 

The French Ambassador's Groom of the Chambers is to 
be here by and bye, and my father is preparing a grand 
dinner, as a specimen of his abilities ; the Ambassador is to 
come himself with a splendid party to decide upon the 
merits of the repast. 

Patty. 

The Ambassador coming here ? 



W297- 

Theodore. 

Not here, but at the Grand Hotel next door ; all is 
bustle and preparation.... but tell me, Patty, when we're 
married, where shall we live? 

Patty (sings.) 

I'd be a pastry-cook, born in the city , 
Where fathers and mothers and little girls meet, 
Making Jam tartlets for Susan and Kitty, 
And tasting all cakes that are pretty and sweet ; 
I'd never envyl he milliners pretty, 
I'd never sigh to make bonnets so neat ! 
I'd be a pastry-cook born in the city, 
And tasting all cakes that are pretty and sweet. 
I'd be a pastry-cook, etc. 

Theodore. 

What, Iho' you tell me that I am a Rover, 
I'll buy you a pair of most beautiful things: 
Kice little mitis^ when the summer is over; 
You'll draw 'em on neatly and tye 'em with strings. 
When we are married, I'll take you to Dover, 
And carry you off upon Steam Packet wings! 

Patty. 

I'd be a Pastry-Gook— live with my lover. 
And ramble away upon Steam Packet wings. 

{Together^ 
rd be a Pastry Cook— Tou'rf be a Pastry Cook, 

Patty. 

Oh dear ! I hear Monsieur Piquet coming ! What shall I 
do ? .Where shall I go ? 



—298— 

Theodore. 

It is too late, try and please him, say you came to con- 
sult him, about some of your mother's dishes. 

. ( Enter Piquet, walks across the Stage, 
ruminates. He turns and starts ai 
seeing Theodore and Patty, 

Piquet. 

Ha! our Son! Welcome! we saw ye not at first, our 
thoughts were in the kitchen ; oh ! Theodore ! Theodore 
Piquet ! This is an important hour ! the hour..., 

Patty ( with a low curtsey)* 
The hour, Sir ? 'tis half past two by the clock in the 
shop, if you please, Sir. 

Piquet. 
Be silent, daughter of our sister in law, leave us. 

Patty {with a low curtsey). 
Yes, if you please, Sir. (Exitt) 

Piquet. 

You know the object of our ambition, to reign once 
more the sovereign of soups, to wear the paper crown, 
to wield the wooden sceptre. Oh ! since our abdication, 
since we ceased to be King's Cook, to gain another crown, 
has been our thought by day — ^^our dream by night, 
what is all else the world can offer, what are diamonds T 

Theodore. 

You don't despise real diamonds, Sire ? 



—299— 

Piquet. 
We prefer paste. Long, long, have >ve negociated , with 
foreign powers. 

Theodore. 
Sire? 

Piquet. 

Often have we had tempting offers from private En- 
glish Families. Wages could not tempt us though. TVages ! 
we hate the word ! But now the representative of a Mo- 
narch has made overtures ; they are accepted : and if our 
dinner pleases him.... if did we say ? See, here we have 
sketched the campaign! But hold — what means your 
dalliance at such a moment with Miss Patty Bunn ? 

Theodore. 

She she is my Cousin, Sire. 

Piquet. 

The blood of the Piquets flows not in her veins, she 
is a mere comer dish in our family dinner ; beware of a 
broil, beware ! place not a delicate souffle on the same 
plate with a gingerbread nut, dare not 1 

Theodore. 
You have over heated yourself. 
Piquet. 
Over heated ! Know that we never o(?er heated any 
thing in our lives ! But tremble ! or you shall not find 
our anger under done ; call your Cousin hither, we will 
give her an audience, we will haul her over the coals. 
Theodore {aside.) 

Poor dear Alice ! What a fright she will be in ! ( calls. ) 
Patty, come in, Patty. 

20 



— 3oo- 



(Enter Patty.) 
Patty. 
Yes, Cousin. Oh ! uncle, you still here ! 

Piquet. 
Approach us ! A horrid suspicion comes over us. We 
feel as if we had in person cooked the most delicale "of 
Fricandeaux, finished it, dished it, tasted it, tried it, when 
Lo ! down the chimney comes a cloud of soot! I cannot 
paint the rest — come hither, girl ! 

Patty. 
No yes if you please. 

Piquet. 
Shrink not from us, Piquet is but mortal ! We are not 
going to carve you! What were you doing here ! 

Patty. 

I, Sir! my my Mother expects a friend or two to 

supper, and I was asking Theodore to help me to make a 

dish. 

Piquet. 

Make a dish ? 

Patty. 

]>^o — I don't exactly mean make a dish, but something 
good to put in a dish. 

Theodore. 

Yes ! that was all. 

Piquet. 
What (vas the dish you wanted ? 

Patty. 
Hem! yes.... a.... Tripes, if you please, uncle. 






-3oi~ 

PlQUET. 

Tripes ? 

Patty. 

And onions I may go now, if you please. {going.) 

Piquet. 

Stop, we charge you, pause, listen, we might be angry, 
but we won't! our blood shan't boil, this once we will 
not roast you, we will lay aside all pomp, we will intreat, 

implore look at yon youth — look at him, I say. 

Patty. 
Yes, sir, I do, I do very often. 
Piquet. 
Oh ! think of his talents, his genius, his acquirements. 

Patty. 
Yes, sir — he is a very nice young man. 
Piquet. 

'Nice ! AVe fear he is a pickle. — Alas ! he has met wilh 
a mushroom ! Oh ! woman ! lead him not astray, draw 
him not from the path of honor. 
Patty. 
/draw him^ or any young man from the path of honor! 
J, sir ! What do you mean by saying such a thing ? 
You deserve to be basted, and if I tell Mother, she'll do it. 

{Exit.) 
Piquet. 
We are set at naught ! W^e must and will come at 
the marrow of the business, son, before we quite boil 
over ; listen : we are a Piquet, we inherit a great name, we 
must net stain it. 



— 302— 

Theodore. 
But, Sire — I love Alice. 

Piquet. 
Love! 

Theodore. 
Yes, Sire. 

Piquet. 
Take care what you say, you will see your Father's 
eyes dripping ; but let us think of glory : our dinner this 
day will be perfect, perfect did we say? Alas! that pud- 
ding a la Chippolata — still we cannot regain the lost 
receipt ! 

Theodore (aside,) 

Pudding a la Chippolata I That pudding haunts him, 
the only thing he does not know how to make ! 

Piquet. 
Oh! that Pudding'! Lost treasure, shall we never more 
regain thee ! The Ambassador insists upon having one ! 
That one obstacle remains, what is to be ^ done? Tve a 
finger in every pie, but that one pudding baffles me ! My 
son, summon the subordinates. — We must address them 
— like the [general whose words animate his soldiers 
before a battle. 

Theodore ^xit, returns with a number of 
cooks, large and small. 
Piquet. 
Upper cooks — under cooks, and scullions ! Hearken to 
the words of Piquet ! Be fired with ardor to the very 
bone ; the hour approaches, the hour of glory or of de- 
gradation! may we depend on you? Yes, yes, we see 
we may, we read it in your culinary countenances. 



Theodore. 
All is ready, sire. 

Piquet. 

Hold — let us think..... you, sir, to the right, look to the 
roasts ; yon pale young man shall superintend the boils ; 
yuu with the corporation taste the sauces, and let yon long 
nosed person smell the sweets. — Theodore ! 

Theodore. 
Sire ! 

Piquet. 

Now agitation choaks our utterance ; this is an awful 
moment, the dawning of thy public life, Theodore ; we 
give thee the general command. 

Theodore. 

What an honor ! 

Piquet. 

Friends and countryinen, this day decides our glory I 
Each nation has long been celebrated for its own peculiar 
dish ; the classic ground of Italy for Macaroni, Germany 
for her Sausages, Spain for Olla Podrida, Hibernia for 
her Stew, Caledonia for her Haggis, England for her 
Plumpudding. But what aie these to theRagouts of France. 
Adieu, my Friends, be the watchwords. Glory or Death ! 
begone ! ( Exeunt cooks, ) What are you thinking of, 
Theodore, my son? He is in a reverie — I know, I guess ; 
he is thinking of the pudding a la Chippolata ! Happy 
father ! Theodore ! 

Theodore. 

Sire, what.f* I beg your pardon. 



Piquet. 
Ask no pardon, we guess the subject of thy thoughts. 

Theodore. 
I dare say you do. 

Piquet. 
Yes ! and we approve, 

Theodore. 
I'm delighted to hear it, I was thinking of Patty. 

Piquet. 
Patty ! not of the pudding a la Chippolata i* 

Theodore, 
Pudding! No, not T ! 

Piquet. 

Miserable boy ! give in thy resignation, we will have 
another premier. 

Theodore. 

[What can you mean ? 

Piquet. 

Put down your cap, your apron, your knife. ( Theodore 
takes them off and throws them down one by one. ) We 
renounce thee, 

Theodore. 
Am I then to perish ! 

Piquet. 

Alas ! can blood of the Piquels flow in thy veins, can it 
be so? — A horrid thought comes over me. — There are 
moments when I even dare to suspect Madame Piquet ; 



o r 
— '000— * 

she who in the whole kitchen range of our thoughts once 
stood alone ! But we go to marshall our forces — turn 
your nose towards that door — sniff, we say — does not that 
rouse thee? Then thou art fallen indeed, infatuated young 
man !- . {Exit.) 

Theodore. 

My poor father is certainly mad — have cooks no feelings ! 
his heart is as hard as the hack of his kitchen grate ! 

Enter Patty. 

Is he gone ? that's confortable ! — OU Theodore, I'm so 
sorry you are to be busy all day ! 

Theodore. 

Why so, Patty? ' 

PXtty. 

Oh! Mother has allowed me to ask a few friends to 
supper — so kind of her! the Miss Popkins and Mrs. Curtis. 

Theodore. 
.What ! pretty Mrs. Curtis ? 

Patty. 

Yes, and we wanted your company, dear Theodore, 
but you are so busy ! 

Theodore. 

No IVe no business now — see, there lie all my little ac- 
coutrements — my father has taken away my situation, 
given me warning — Fm free as air. 

Patty. 

Dear ! how lucky, but bless me ! what shall I do ?— I have 
nothing you will think nice ; you are used to such savoury 



Wishes that your father kicks up with odds and ends — 
you'll not be able to eat our homely fare, 

Theodore. 
Dont say so, dear Patty — Bread and cheese and kisses 
with you. 

Patty. 
But tell me, Theodore, is there any thing / can make 
for you? tell me what you would like. 

Theodore. 
Oh ! I am not particular ; I shall be easily pleased in your 
company ; I shall hot ask for line dishes : none of my 
father's Friteaux and Coulis! — none of his Pudding h la 
Chlppolata ! 

Patty. 
Pudding what ! / can make that. 

Theodore 
fWhat can you make, Patty ? 

Patty. 
That — the pudding with the long name. 

Theodore. 
Pudding^a-la-Chip-pO'la-ta. 

Patty. 
Yes, Pud-ding-a- la-Chip-po-la-ta, 

Theodore. 
You say it very well now — I only wish for all our 
sakes you could make it as well. 

Patty. 
Oh! but I can, Ny father had it in his receipt book. 

Theodore. 
.What, the lale Mr. Bunn ! 



—Soy — 

Patty. 
Yes, he brought it from France, and lately I have made 
it several times — oh, so good! 

Theodore. 
Pudding a la ChlppolaU! it is a dish that my father 
would give the vv^orld to be able to make for the ambassa- 
dor's dinner. 

Patty. 
You do'nt say so ! well then our supper shall be grander 
1 han the ambassador's dinner ! for we'll have the pudding ! 
come, cheer up, Theodore. 

Barcarole^ Masanieih, 

Though your father gives you warning. 
He takes your knife— but not your life. 

Theodore. 

But I shall see to morrow morning, 
Some other chap — in my old cap! 

Patty. 

Oh I what of that, I'd scorn his wrath. 

Theodore. 

Take heed, whisper low. 

Patty. 

Too many cooks will spoil the broth.' 

Theodore. 

Take heed, whisper low. 

Together. 

Oh, pray go seek 
The nice things that we want. 
Oh, pray go seek, etc., etc. 

Patty. 
Novf , where can I make my pudding ? Mother is busy 



in her kitchen ; I can't go there, and where shall we get the 
good things to make it with ? 

Theodore. 
Here, make it at this fourneau. 

{Points to the fourneau on the left.) 

And out of my father's cuphoard I'll warrant we shall 

get the ingredients. ( Opem a cupboard.) 

Patty. 

That's right, stop you here, and I'll go and get the receipt 
Look and the saucepan ; I shall be back in a minute. 

Theodore. 

I wonder if Patty is in earnest ; let me see if there is any 
fire in the fourneau.... Yes, I'll soon blow it up {blows the 
fire). I'm afraid Palty must be jesting, and making a fool of 
me. {Enter Paily with bib and apron., 

holland sleeoes^ and paper cap on 
her head ; a book and saucepan^ 

Patty. 

Now , Theodore, now to business ! perhaps you do'nt 
knoAv it, but I really am an excellent cook ; you never 
tasted my lobster sauce ? No, the more's the pity ! But now 
for the Pudding, go to the cupboard, and give me the 
ingredients, as I ask for them. Yery well, now begin. 

( Theodore at the cupboard., Patty at 
the fourneau.') 

Air : Gardez-vous. 

Theodore ! Theodore ! give me what I ask. 

Have you got some rum, ray dear ? I'll thank you for the flask, 

Kow madeira, half a pint ; some macaioni too. 

Have you got some raitios there ? I'll thank you for a few. 



— 3o9— 
Together. 

Stir it up, stir it up,mejrily we sing, 

This would be a dainty dish to set to set before a king! 

Patty. 

There, Theodore, only smell how delicious ! 

Theodore. 

It is indeed ! may I just taste? 

Patty. 

No, no, not 'till supper time ; besides it must stay upon 
the fire a long time. Oh ! what a love of a pudding ! 

Mrs. BuNN {without) 

Patty, Patty, I say. 

Patty. 

Coming, mother, coming. Theodore, the Pudding must 
stand on the fire ; let us keep out of your father's way, and 
w'ell send mother to look at it presently; how nice it 
smells ! (Exeunt.') 

{Enter Piquet^ with a saucepan in his 
handy followed by a cook. ) 

Piquet. 

{Tufting.) Exquisite ! perfect ! listen to us ! be sure 
you have this Capilotade de volaille placed exactly before 
the Ambassador. Do you mark ! Under his very nose, 
remember ; here, we'll place it on this fourneau. There 
can be no mistake. {Exit cook.) 

{Puts it on the fourneau to the 
right. ) 



— 3io — 

{Song.) Air : Tournlz. (La Dame Blanche.) 

I glory in my art, 

My kitchen is my boast; 
The proudest may with envy look 

On him who rules the roast : 
The Ladies owe their charms 

To culi»ary care ; 
The cook provides the fare that feeds 

The fairest of the fairl 

Stir up — stir up — stir up, etc. 

When round a well spread board 

A laughing circle dine, 
You hear the wit, but don't forget 

The inspiration's mine : 
Oh i if you doubt my words, 

Remove each nice til bit ; 
And when the table's clear'd, you'll find 
There's very little wit. 
Stir up, etc. 

you hear of great events, 

Of battles lost and won ; 
And you give the soldiers great applause 

For all that they have done I 
Obi they deserve no thanks, 

The cook has done it all ; 
For if the soldiers did not eat, 

Their pluck would be but small! 
Stir up, etc. 

Could Taglioni twirl 

Upon her little toe ; 
If she'd no cook to dress her meat ? 

I boldly answer " A"b." 
Could Madame Pasta sing ? 

Could Fanny Kcmble act ? 
Ao— lis the Cook inspires them all. 

And that's the houest fact. 
Stir up, etc. 



— 3ii— 

The hour approaches, nothing now must flurry us. 

{Enter Mrs. Bunn.) 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Ah ! Mounseer, how dy'e do ? Busy in your way, I 

suppose ; am I am ditto in mine, AVell, I must look after 

Patty's pudding. {Goes to Piquet's saucepan on the 

fourneau to the rights takes it and 

shakes it. Piquet rushing to her^ 

seizes the saucepan in much agitation) 

Piquet. 

Woman ! hold ! dost thou ever hope for pleasant days ? 
for tranquil nights? for happy morning thoughts? for 
balmy slumbers ? Wouldst thou see thy child a blessing 
to thy declining years ? woulds't thou be honored by thy 
children's children ? 

Mrs. BuNN. 
Why, what's the matter with the man Z 
Piquet. 

If thou hast such hopes — touch not, oh! touch not 
that saucepan! if thou art bent upon blasting my fame, 
trampling on the proudest hopes of an old man's bosom, 
say so. 

Mrs. Bunn. 

Bless your old bosom ! not /; / want to see Patty's 
saucepan. 

Piquet. 

Patty's saucepan ! that is not Paity^s — that is the ambas- 
sador's own particular especial dish ! 

Mrs. Bunn. 

Ambassador's dish— oh very well, I'm [sure / don't want 



to meddle with your great Plenipo people 1 don't be so 
wild this warm weather. 

{Crosses to the other foumeau.) 
Here's a nice' dish, brother-in-law. 

Piquet. 

Dish! what dish ! whose mess is it? 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Mess ! marry come up ! its my daughter's making, and 
excellent too, it's flagrant as a nosegay. 

Piquet. 

Patty's making ! faugh ! a dirt pie ! 

Mrs. BuNN. 

A dirt pie ! listen, old Pic : here I've been established for 
six and twenty years, and if you pick holes in my cookery 
reputation, you'll find your fat in the fire. Do you suppose 
I or my daughter want tQ be taught our business by 
any outlandish relation? No, no, old Pic. 

Piquet. 

Madam, you agitate yourself and us ; you are warm; you 
had better be set by to cool. 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Cool ! well perhaps I is hot,but you frighten one.However, 
good man, I can make allowances : we all have our liltle 
puffs of temper at times ; listen to me, there's an honest 
creature : I see you are bother'd with that outlandish 
man's dinner, so PU do all I can to help you. 

Piquet. 
Help us ! Have you seen our carte ? 



— OID — 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Cart ! No ! have you got a cart ? 
Piquet. 

Our bill of fare, we mean. 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Oh ! call it what you will, you'll only make a hash of 
it ; just listen to me : I'm sure you want a genteel dish or 
so, to make out your sides and your corners, and I'll help 
you with all the pleasure in life ; I know you'd do ditto 
for me, if I was in trouble ; let me see : oh! I know a 
very genteel dish. Calf's liver ! listen : cut a hole in it, 
stuff it with crumbs of bread, herbs, onions, salt, pepper, 
butter, eggs, then sew it up again (/'// do that, you're no 
great go with a needle, of course), wrap it up, in a slice of 
veal, roast it, and serve it with gravy and red currant jelly. 

Piquet (aside.) 
Horrid ! Nauseous ! She mfekes me ill ! 

Mrs. BuNN. 
Or, what say you to Pettitoes? Not like pettitoes! 
Well, only to think ! Well, I know what always fills 
up a gap, a mighty fashionable side dish. Bubble-and- 
squeak, or Spinach and eggs, or Pigeons in a hole. — La I 
don't it make your mouth water ? Then, you know, after 
all, and to conclude, we'll have butter'd crabs, medley 
pie, gooseberry fool, flummery froth, scalded codlings, 
and elder bob. 

Piquet. 
Madam, for' as long a period as possible we have en- 
dured your catalogue of culinary nastiness. But time 
with us is precious. 



Mrs. BUNN. 
But won't you have them dishes ? 

Piquet. 
We would not feed carrion crows with them ! 

Mrs. BuNN. 
There is no bearing the man — if he 'stays much longer 
we shall have to find him in straight waistcoats. 
Piquet. 
Madam, before we part, a painful duty must be per- 
formed — a very painful one — we feel the delicacy of 
our situation — but we must speak out. 

Mrs. Bui^^N. 

Speak out ! You may shout if you like. 

Piquet. 

Alas ! Mrs. Bunn. — Oh ! Mrs. Bunn ! — We must be 
candid, Mrs. Bunn. — Madam, you have a daughter. 

Mrs. Bunn. 

Thank you kindly. IVe known that exactly twenty 
years. 

Piquet. 
Well, Mrs. Bunn — and we have a son. 

Mrs. Bunn. 
AVc ! what, you and / / 

Piquet. 
We cannot think of such a thing, Mrs. Bunn — the boy 
to become your's must form an alliance of which we 
cannot approve. 

Mrs. Bunn. 
Oh! I know what you means, and now I'll tell you 



— 3i5— 

what, Monsieur, let us be candid, plain and open, as the 
lemon peel said to the orange peel, -my daughter is as 
good as your son any day, and if the young folks wish to 
keep company, you are the last person that ought to object ; 
If / help 'em make the pot boil. 

Piquet. 

Pot boil! Madam, enough of this! — we must to the 
kitchen. 

Mrs. BuNN. 
"Well — there's a good creature! so ci?e will — I'm not 
cantankerous, I can make allowances ; come along, I will 
help you after all. 

Piquet. 
Help us ! keep your distance — avaunt ! But time flies — 
iWe must to the scene of action — our forces are muster 'd. 

Dueit, 
. Piquet. 

Keep your distance, MistresG B.' 
Xou and I shall ne'er agree ; 

You are only fit 

To turn the spit 
For a cur of low degree. 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Keep your distance, Monsieur Pic; 
Or rU send you to old Nic, 

With your fricassee of frogs 

Not fit for dogs; 
Tou will make the people sick. 

Piquet. 

Amhassadors are fed 
(Where my repast is spread || 

2x; 



— 3i6— 

Mrs. BuNN. 

They cannot starve, for where yov, are 
There's sure to be ealfs head! 

Piquet.' 

Your anger. Madam, rises. 
And my dinner disconcerts ^ 

Mrs. BuNN. 

Tour dinners I despises, 

But I'll give you your deserts^ 

Together. 
Keep your distance, ctc» 

{Exit PiqueL) 

Mrs. BuNN. 
Get along, you old vinegar cruet! — ^he don't know when 
he is well off; give zwy dishes to carrion crows ! ah! — the 
difference is He'd put the carrion crows into his dishes! a 
poor beggarly outlandish cook out of place ! I hate men 
cooks, they rob women of their own peculiar privileges* 

{Enter Patty.) 

Patty. 

Come, mother, come, 'tis time to look about supper ,^ 
just as the grand folks are going to dinner ! The ambas- 
sador's head man is arrived, and my uncle is gone to dish 
his dinner. 

Mrs. BuNN. 

He looks as if his dinner was dish'd already f An over- 
bearing Ignoramus ! He calls his bill of fare a Cart ! A 
turkey a Dingdong ! and a chicken a Pulley ! Pulley in- 
deed ! I wish the rope was tight about his neck. How- 
ever, I'll be off to lay my own little cloth. — Come, Patty^ 
come along, make haste. {Exit J) 



-3,7- 

Pattt. 
Wliat nice smells come out of Uncle's Kitchen ! Theo- 
dore will think mine a very poor supper. — (^Peeps out.) 
W^hat a quantity of dishes ! I wish I had one, they would 
never miss it. — What do I see ! A saucepan left here by 
my uncle! and something in it quite delicious ! I suppose 
he has taken all he wanted ; and this will be thrown away. 
Oh! I know what I will do! this will be a surprise for 
Theodore — I'll run off with this to my mother, and Til 
come back for my pudding by and bye. ( Exit with 
Piquet's saucepan^ {Enter Piquet in an old fashioned Court 
suit J with wig, swordy etc.) 
Piquet. 
Now then, ye Gods, prepare the laurel crovni ! The 
quarter of an hour before the combat is more agitating 
them the combat itself. Who would not be a cook? Yet, 
ah ! — all other artists lire in their works ; the sculptor in his 
statues, the painter in his pretty pictures, the poet in his 
verses : what is Poetry compared to Cookery? A trifie, a 
souffle — Talk of the Fine arts! Cookery is a superfine 
art ! Yet the perishable works of the cook pass down 
the throats of ungrateful man, and sink into oblivion! But 
cheer thee, Piquet! This will never do; moralizing on 
the field of battle ! — No — no — In this court suit once stoed 
thy great grandfather ! It fitted him, would that it fitted 
us ! This is his sword — he never used it — he perished on 
his spit ! There he was wrong ; had we been so circum- 
stanced, we would not have made the pleasurable spit an 
instrument of death ! The splendour of our own appear- 
ance rouses us 'io energy — the hour is come. Advance ! 
(Goes to the side. All the cooks pass 
across the stage in procession ^ each 
carrying a dish. 



Well done ! well done ! proceed, soup ! fish ! flesh ! fowl ! 
all right ! Oh ! happy ! happy Piquet ! the climax is ohlain- 
ed, the crown is ours! (^Enter in haste the ambassador's 
Sicivard! ) Ha ! the Steward of the Ambassador ! — Why 
hast thou quitted the banquetting hall ? 

Steward. 

Alas ! Monsieur Piquet, what are you doing here? You 
cannot know what has happen'd. 

Piquet. 
Happen'd ! Our blood runs cold, what canst thou mean? 

Ste^vard. 
You have not carefully examined your bill of fare. 

Piquet. 
Bill of fare ! Oh speak ! 

Ste^veri>. 
Every thing looks excellent, but*,,* 

Piquet. 
What? 

Steward. 

But there is one dish \a anting. 
Piquet. 
A dish wanting ! Oh ! horror ! But oh ! You jest? Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! You jest, a dish wanting, as if that were possi- 
ble ! You really frightened us for the moment ; but as 
well might you have said that Canova's Venus wanted 
grace ! 

Stew^ard. 

All I can say is, that the dish that ought to have been 
placed immediately before the Ambassador is not to be 
found. 



— 3i9— 
Piquet. 

Ha ! the Carpilotade ! that we made with these hands, 
sniffed with these nostrils, beheld with these eyes! Oh! 
Mr. Steward, compassionate a desperate man ! We are 
distracted ! Some one has deceived us ! Horrible situa- 
tion ! [Exit.) 
Steward. 

Poor man ! I pity him ! Bless me ! W^hat do I see on 
the other fourneau ? Doubtless the very dish ! At once I 
will remedy the error, before it has been noticed. Here, 
Yincent ! (Enter Servant.) Be sure you place this, when 
you have dish'd it, immediately before the Ambassador ; 
make haste ! ( Exit servant ivitk Patty ^s saucepan. ) How 
delighted the poor man will be ! {Enter Piquet.) 

Piquet. 

It is in vain! we search for it in vain, we are a lost 
character, we cannot find it ! ( Rushes into the Steward's 
arms. ) 

Steward. 

Make yourself easy, Mr. Piquet, I have found the lost 
dish, and it is already before his excellency ! 
Piquet. 
.We breathe again ! where did you find it ? 

Steward. 
You look'd on the wrong fourneau, I found it there. 

(^Pointing to the leji.) 
Piquet. 
Where? 

Steward. 
There 1 



020 — 

Piquet. 
There ? 

Steward, 
Yes! I found it there ^ and sent it to table. 

Piquet, (aside,) 

Mercy on us ! Patty's dirt pie ! Oh ! what will become 
of us ! It is served ! it is carved ! it is tasted ! it is nau- 
seated! and we are disgraced! 

Steward. 

Keep up your spirits, all will be well. {exit) 

Piquet. 

Well ! — All go well 1 our brain is dizzy I we cannot live 
a life of infamy ! we have made our determination ! Shall 
the representative of Royalty be poisoned by a nastiness, 
and think it was concocted by a Piquet? It must not be! 
not one ambassador alone is at the table, those of Spain, 
of Sweden, of Russia.... what would the Russians think, 
not to mention the Prussians ! oh horror! where shall we 
turn for comfort ! Ha ! my great ancestor points the 
way ! he calls me ! methinks I see him now, beautiful man 
that he was with a powdered head and pigtail ( makes a 
lowhocv.) Piquet! our great Ancestor — the centre dish of 
our family ! we will be wilh you in a moment — we are 
coming — that is to say goings our last remove is at hand. 
( He prepares io fall on his sword, ) 

Steward (without). 

Piquet, Monsieur Piquet, glory! you have obtained the 
liighest triumph I 



-321- 
PlQUET. 

.What triuiuph ? 

{^Enier SteVQardj, 

Steward. 
AH the company are enchanted, especially with the dish 
that we brought last, that which was placed before the 
Ambassador. 

Piquet. 
That! banter us not! 

Steward. 
The Ambassador has been helped three times ! 

Piquet {aside). 
Three times ! Patty's dirt pie ! we hope it's wholesome. 

Steward. 
They say it is the real pudding h la Chippolata, 

Piquet. 
Pudding h la Chippolata I Oh gammon ! 
Steward. 

Yes, and on account of your success in that dish alone, 
the Ambassador gives you the appointment. 
Piquet {aside.) 
That dish alone ! astonishing ! 

Steward. 
Do you hear me, Piquet ? 

Piquet. 
I do — 1 do ! you came just in time, had you been a quar- 
ter of an hour later the meat would have been cold. 

{Enter Tluodore and Patty.') 



—-322— 

Patty (^looking on the foumeau). 
Dear me ! where is my pudding ! I want my pudding ; 
I'm sure I left it here. 

Theodore. 

How very strange ! she left it here ! her pudding a la 
Chippolata, 

Piquet. 

Ye Gods ! it was Patty's dish ! ( aside to Theodore') hush t 
bid her be quiet. 

Patty. 

I want my pudding — it must be found. 

Piquet (aside). 

Silence her, Theodore, that dish by mere accident was 
placed before the Ambassador. 

Theodore. 

Oh! and his Excellency approved? 

Piquet (aside). 

True — we.... we owe our appointment to it. 

Patty. 

My pudding must be found, 'some one must have stolen it! 

Piquet ( aside to Theodore ), 

Speak to your cousin, silence her on any terms. 

STL^VA1\D. 

Monsieur Piquet, one thing I have not yet told you : the 
Ambassador took this sprig of laurel from a ham, and 
gave it to me saying : '* Present this to the maker of thai 
pudding. '? 



-.323- 

PlQUET. •' 

Oh ! what an honour ! 

Theodore (aside.) 
That belongs to Patty by rights, Sir, 
Piquet. 

Hush ! 

Steward. 

You will please to make a pudding exactly the same 
to morrow. 

Piquet. 

Ha ! what do we hear ? 

Patty {whispers'), 
ril tell you how, uncle, on one condition. Here comes 
my mother , she must speak to you. 

{Enter Mrs, BAnn). 

Mrs. BuiST?* 
I've been looking for you, Mounseer, I've something 
to say : one good turn deserves another, as the spit said 
to the shoulder of mutton, and I think a bad one does ditto ; 
and as you chuses to turn up your nose at my daughter, 
why I turns up my nose at your son ; and when it's quite 
convenient to you to go...... why 

Patty. 
I believe my uncle has changed his mind, speak, great 
Monsieur Piquet, head cook to the French Ambassador! 
Piquet. 
What say est thou, maiden ? 

Patty {aside). 
One wiord from my lips makes your throne totter. 



—324— 

Piquet. 

Hem! — we we give our consent. Children receive 

a father's blessing ! 

Mrs. BuNN. 

And oh ! take a mother's ditto, 

Mrs. Bunn is going to throw her arms 
round Piquet's neck. — He recedes^ 
and giocs her his hand to kiss. 

Piquet. 

Theodore, prove yourself worthy of your family! re- 
member, my child, married life is like a dinner table laid 
for two. The solidities of business may be relieved and 
lightened by the side dishes of rational relaxation : give 
and take as little sauce as possible, be sparing otycmv 
pepper^ and always try to keep your siveels for last : 
above all remember ( what we ourselves are well aware 
of now ) : we have done our best to please — but the Proof 
of the Pudding is in the Eating. 

On the nth. of march i833. "The PROOF OF THE PUDDING was 
performed hy amateurs at the residence of Sir A'\^illlam and Lady- 
Clayton, in the rue dcs Vieiliards, Boulognc-snr-mer, with the 
following cast : 

Mons"". Piquet Mr. Hayncs Bayly. 

Theodore Mr* Rice Clayton. 

Groom of the chambers . . • . . Mons>". Dupont. 

/ Mr. Twysden. 

„ , , J, „. ) Monsr. d'Hcrlcn.] 

Looks and ocullions . ; \ ,.« 

h Mr. Vernon and 

' Mr. Robert Rich. 

Mrs. Bunn Mrs. Ilaynes Bayly. 

Patty Bunn Viscountess Eiiry. 

After the performance the following, Epilogue written for the oc- 
casion Mr, Haynes Bayly was recited by Mr. Rice Clayton. 



EPILOGUE 



OF 



t\)e Pvoof of tl)e |3utJt)ini3, 

BEING 

A LECTURE OIV PUDDINGS. 



On all of your minds be this moral imprest : 
Say not that your pudding is one of the best, 
Until you hare tasted — for that is the test. 

ril give — if none here will my efforts disparage, 
A lecture on Puddings — and first I'll name Marriage, 
Few know how to make it! few deem it expedient 
To wait till theyVe found out each proper ingredient ; 
And so when for dinner the table is spread. 
They have mixed up a mere Hasty pudding instead. 
Such puddings, before they are many days old, 
Will be rather too hot^ or else rather too cold ! 
But Marriage judiciously made^ will be found 
Full of sweets, and delectable all the year round ! 
A Friend is a pudding that many cooks make 
So quickly — at last it turns out — a mistake ! 
At first it may seem like the very thing wish'd, 
Yet a coolness comes over it when it is dish'd. 
'Twill keep pretty well w^hile the w^eather is summery, 
But in winter such friendship \vill turn into Flummery, 
But Friendship home made — (and it never is sold) 
Is a pudding that never, oh! never gro^vs cold. 



The next is the Gambler's pudding ! He takes 

Some meat to compose it — most probably stakes* 

He tosses it up^ and still higher and higher, 

'Till it falls from the frying pan into the fire. 

And so much of the pudding is lost, that at last | 

He has very few scraps for tomorrow's repast ! 

The sharper's a sponge cake — and by the same rule, 

The Flat that he fleeces, a Gooseberry Fool ! 

The Soldier's rough bowl must be fiU'd to the brim, 

Baiter pudding in trenches (not trenchers), for him I 

The Painter will mix up a pudding that's light ; 

He thinks of his pallet from morning till night ! 

The Poet has seldom got pudding enough ! 

He dines on a trijle, and sups on a puff! 

The Ladies are Queen-cakes, each quite a sweet heart, 

The Gentlemen — can't be like any thing Tart, 

The Heiress's pudding will alwaj'S seem nice, 

And many young men will apply for a slice ; 

Though ugly and crusty, there still will be some 

Who will swear 'tis divine, for the sake of the Plum, 

The critic — ^But hold ! that word fills me with fear ; 
I trust we shall find no one critical here ! 
No, no — I am certain that nobody looks 
Unkindly on us — for we're Amateur Cooks. 
Though glaring om' faults, yet from censure refrain^ 
If you cut us too roughly — you can't come again ! 

The dish that we gave you to night, was combined 
Of English and French, for that reason be kind ; 
Encourage all cooks whose exertions advance 
Kind feelings and friendship 'twixt England and Frai^e. 



—326— 
LINES WRITTEN 

2lfto Dtsitinig Mr. 30l)n Santm, 

The author of the Q'HarA tales. 



I saw him on his couch of pain, 

And -when I heard him speak, 
It was of Hope long nurs'd in vain, 

And tears stole down his cheek : 
He spoke of honours early won, 

Which youth could rarely boast ; 
Of high endeavors well begun, 

But prematurely lost. 

I saw him on a brighter day. 

Among the first spring flowVs ; 
Despairing thoughts had pass'd away, 

He spoke of future hours : 
He spoke of health, of spirits freed 

To take a noble aim ; 
Of efforts that were sure to lead 

To fortune and to fame ! 

They bear him to a genial land 

The cradle of the weak ; 
Oh ! may it nerve the feeble hand. 

And animate the cheek ! 
Oh! may he, when we meet again, 

Those flattering hopes recall, 
And smiling say : — "they were not vain, 

.'*rve res^lised them all ! " 



SHOW ME THE RUIIVED MAN. 



Show me the ruined man 

Who never hopes to rise, 
Who on the earth where he is hurlM^ 

Without an effort lies ; 
Oh ! hid him come to me 

And tell his secret care ; 
Whatever it he, he yet must learn 

Man never should despair. 

This is not said by one 

Who no reverse has know^n ; 
The chances are, His lot hath been 

Less gloomy than my own : 
But God will give us strength 

For the burthen we must hear ; 
Adversity hath taught me this ; — 

Man never should despair. 

The gloom of blighted hopes 

!None better know than I, 
And wrong'd by those I loved, Fve pray'd 

To lay me down and die ! 
But blesssings still remained, 

And 'twas an impious prayer ; 
Hope will not leave a guiltless mind, 

Man never should despair. 



^328- 
'TWAS THIS— 'TWAS THIS. 



It was a recollection 

Of a brighter time than this ; 
Of a season when affection 

Gave to me her fondest kiss : 
'Twas thinking of the changes 

Doom'd to all beneath the sun ; 
Of the coldness that estranges 

Hearts that seemM to beat like one 
'Twas this, 'twas this, believe me, 

Made me tarn away from you, 
Lest the chilling thoughts that grieve me. 

Should bring grief to others too. 

I know you will reprove me ; 

You will say, as oft you've said, 
The friends who truly love me, 

Love me most when tears are shed ! 
But no — I must conceal them, 

For my sorrows lie too deep ; 
And the kindness meant to heal them. 

Is so sure to make me weep ! 
Ts&this, 'tis this, believe me, 

Made me turn away from you. 
Lest the chilling thoughts that grieve me 

Should bring grief to others too. 



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